


The Trouble with Sentiment

by Khansfringe, orphan_account



Series: Always [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Alpha!John, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Heat Inducers, Heat Suppressants, Implied Drug Use, John Goes to War, Knotting, Love Letters, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse, Omega!Sherlock, PTSD symptoms, Pregnancy Prevention, Rough Sex, Slave Trading, implied alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 95,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khansfringe/pseuds/Khansfringe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John, a twenty-two year old Alpha university student, gets dragged to an Omega auction house by his friend, Mike Stamford, he wasn't planning on buying anything. At least, not until he saw Sherlock, the eighteen year old, emaciated Omega with trust issues. Now John and Sherlock have to find a way to work through both of their troubles, including Sherlock's tragic past and John's volunteering to join the army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a simple roleplay prompt on Omegle, and has grown into so much more. Above everything else, this is a domestic AU, so things do get, well, domestic. There is a lot of angst and plenty of fluff. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Sherlock was dragged up on the stage by the leash attached to his collar. He stumbled a bit, his hands bound behind his back as punishment for earlier shoving an Alpha away in defence. His breaths were shaky, and he swallowed thickly, trembling slightly. The bruise on his side from being kicked wouldn’t show up until after he was sold, and they would make sure he sold.

He didn’t want it – god how he didn’t want it.

He and his family had lived in the country and had avoided being found. But he’d still been taken, and the auction house had had trouble selling him since. It had been nearly three years now, so finally they resorted to other means.

He hadn’t eaten in four days, making him docile, and he was exhausted. So, by the time they dragged him onto the stage, he just stood there, looking out over the crowd, waiting, because it would happen.

***

John had gone to the auction with Mike just to keep him company. He wasn’t looking for an Omega – god, he had enough problems just looking after himself – and he certainly didn’t want a slave on top of that. Mike, however, seemed very keen about the prospect. So, John had agreed, going along and sitting with him but not purchasing a number. And he had been pleasantly bored until a boy of around eighteen had been dragged onto the stage, his dark hair contrasting wildly with his pale skin.

“He’s mine,” John whispered to Mike, who only grinned and placed the first bid for him.

“You can pay me back later,” Mike promised, patting John’s knee in a friendly gesture.

***

Sherlock swayed slightly where he stood, quickly corrected by a smack upside the head by the Beta holding his leash, barking at him to stand straighter. He did so, glancing up at the crowd and watching a few hands get raised.

He looked down at the stage. So, it would finally happen, then. He’d be sold. He sighed, closing his eyes, wanting to not be there anymore.

They’d only just decided to try selling him a couple months ago, having got bored of him, he supposed. The runners of the auction house moved about a bit, and liked having younger Omegas around.

He heard his price climb steadily, though it eventually tapered out, slowing down.

***

“Please,” John whispered, his hands clenched tightly. “Please keep bidding, Mike.” He could see how uncomfortable the boy was on the stage, how malnourished he was.

He flinched outright when the Beta handler smacked him, and John was half tempted to run up on the stage and beat the man. Somehow, he refrained, sitting tensely on the edge of his seat until it was just Mike and one other man bidding, and finally it was just Mike.

“Any other offers?” the auctioneer asked. “Going once, twice… sold, to number 384.”

John let out a long breath of relief, squeezing Mike’s arm in thanks.

“Come on then,” Mike said, “let’s go get you your Omega.”

***

Sherlock shifted his arms a little, the ropes on his wrists cutting into his skin a bit more than they had been all day – he wouldn’t be surprised if they were bleeding.

He heard what he assumed was the word ‘sold,’ but it sounded more like ‘cold’ to his ears, having spaced out a little. Before he knew it though, his arm was gripped tightly and he was hauled off the back of the stage to a back collections room, shoved inside to wait. He leant heavily against the wall, sinking down it to the floor, exhausted.

***

John followed Mike to the main booth, where they did an exchange of money for ownership papers. John went through the process of filling them out, then shook Mike’s hand and departed with the promise of paying him back soon.

A Beta led John around behind the stage, into a small room loaded with sold Omegas and a few Alphas that were there to collect their purchases.

John stood in the middle of the room, his eyes falling on the boy in the corner, whose knees were pulled up to his chest, his head hung in defeat. Swallowing thickly, John walked forward, crouching down beside him.

“Are you alright? My name’s John. If you’d follow me, I would like to get you out of this place,” he said quietly, his hand resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder.

Sherlock was half dozing in the room when he heard someone talking near him, not quite making out the words. He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched a little, tugging at his wrists with a wince. He dragged his eyes open slowly, his dazed gaze falling on a blond Alpha, a bit older than himself, but he was nowhere near awake enough to try and guess accurately.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, trying to sort out what he had said.

The Beta that had led John over growled in annoyance. “Got other things to do, hurry along for the man!” he said shortly, taking up Sherlock’s leash and yanking it. Sherlock pitched forward and fell onto his chest on the floor, wincing at the pain in his side, his head spinning. He didn’t move, eyes closing again as he lost consciousness.

John stood up quickly, shoving the Beta back and growling at him, standing possessively between the boy and the handler.

“ _Don’t_ touch my Omega again, or it will be the last thing you do,” John threatened, his voice a deep snarl.

Casting a glare at the Beta, he crouched down again, quickly undoing the collar from around the boy’s neck and tossing it aside. He reached into his pocket for his knife, efficiently slicing through the ropes that bound the boy’s wrists. After he had made sure that absolutely nothing else was binding him, he rolled the boy over and lifted him up, carrying him from the room without a backwards glance at the abusive men inside.

Sherlock came awake a small bit when he felt himself moved; he was a light sleeper now that he’d been in that place so long. He whimpered a little as he was lifted, his arm hanging limp and his head just staying fallen back where it was, not bothering to try and move much.

He heard the noise of the auction hall fade away, and shivered a little when a cool breeze brushed past his skin, wearing nothing but a dingy pair of jeans.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed again, not able to work his eyes open.

“You’re alright,” John promised when he felt the boy stir. “I’m taking you home; I’ve got you.”

John shifted the boy’s weight in his arms, thankful for his military training and for the fact that the boy weighed practically nothing as he raised an arm to quickly hail a cab. As soon as one pulled up, he set the young Omega inside, climbing around to the other door to get in.

“221B Baker Street, please,” John told the cabbie, reaching out to press his fingers against the boy’s wrist, taking his pulse. He was concerned with how weak it was.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed a little, shifting slightly with a wince, the partial boot print on his side making itself more known. He felt something press against his wrist and moved both of his arms in front of himself, curling up on his uninjured side, protecting the bruised and somewhat scabbed and bleeding wrists.

John sighed quietly, his body reacting to the pheromones the boy was producing, the ones that were begging for help, and his few years at medical school were also insisting that he do something.

John reached out, gently combing his fingers through the boy’s errant curls, soothing his fingers down his neck and to his shoulders. “You’re alright. I promise, you’re alright.”

Sherlock faded in and out, the touch on his neck and shoulders warm and unfamiliarly gentle.

Eventually, the cab pulled up in front of his flat, and, after paying the fare, John got out, lifting the boy back into his arms. He pounded on the door with his boot, unable to fish his key out of his pocket. A few moments later, the door was opened by his surprised Beta landlady, and he stepped past her into the building.

A small noise came out of Sherlock as he was lifted again, and he curled up in the man’s arms.

Sherlock heard another voice for a moment, warm air wrapping around him – inside somewhere, then. It was only after he was laid down again that he went completely limp once more, falling asleep all the way.

John stepped back from the bed, sweeping his gaze over the unconscious boy, checking for injuries. He had seen the wrists already, but he knew other wounds couldn’t be far behind with the treatment he had been getting.

A quick inspection showed a large bruise on the Omega’s side, the shape of a boot evident, and it made John’s blood boil. Instead of getting angry, though, he walked into the bathroom, running a rag under warm water and returning to the boy’s side, gently cleaning the wounds on his wrists and then bandaging them when he was done.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock slept for several hours, used to being woken up every hour or so the last few days, never allowed full sleep. When he started to wake up, the first thing he was aware of was the ache in his side, and then the soft bed under him, and that he was covered with an equally soft blanket. His forehead creased a little, fingers flexing slightly as he felt the bedding under them.

John had retired to the living room after he had finished caring for the battered and abused Omega, lying across the couch with his head on the armrest nearest the hallway so that he could hear if the boy woke up.

John stared at the fireplace across from him, wondering why on earth he had spent so much money on a boy who couldn't even walk. 

_Why you? What's so special about you?_  John wondered

A few minutes later, John heard the bed sheets rustle, and he pushed himself up, padding into the bedroom with a soft knock on the door.

Sherlock heard the knock and dragged his eyes open slowly, an unfamiliar room slowly coming into focus. He swallowed, turning his head over to look at the partially open door, seeing a face peering in at him. He blinked once, a confused expression on his face.

"Mmm... wha- wha’s going on?" Sherlock mumbled quietly.

John stepped into the room, walking slowly over to the bed in hopes of not frightening the Omega.

"Do you remember anything from yesterday?" John asked quietly, reaching out to run a comforting hand through his hair, able to feel his distress. "I purchased you from that horrible auction house. You're safe now."

Sherlock closed his eyes when the hand neared him, feeling it move though his hair. His brows furrowed a little and he wet his lips.

"Mm... auction's tomorrow..." Sherlock mumbled, dragging his eyes open slowly and looking at the man.

"No," John whispered, continuing to gently comb through the boy's dirty dark hair. "I insist that it was yesterday. You blacked out a couple of times."

Sherlock winced a little, shifting on the bed. He swallowed thickly, letting out a breath.

John ran his fingertips lightly down the side of the boy’s face, skimming over a bruise that was forming high on his cheekbone. "I'm sorry, you must be starving. Come on, I'll make you some food and tea."

"Mm... been almost four days... don' even feel hungry 'nymore," Sherlock mumbled, trying to open his eyes more.

John's brow furrowed. "That's no good," he said, his fingers falling from the boy's cheek. "Stay here, I'm going to go make you some eggs and toast, alright?"

John backed from the room without confirmation, walking quickly into the kitchen to start fixing the meagre meal. He knew that it was nothing compared to what a normal Omega's metabolism could break down, but he had a feeling that this boy was going to have troubles with it.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the Alpha disappeared out of the door. He swallowed, rolling onto his right side slowly, the kick on his left.

Sherlock looked after the Alpha, able to smell him on the bedding that was wrapped around him, and he couldn't help the relaxed feeling he got from it. Quite the opposite of the almost fearful feeling he got from the Alphas at the auction house.

John poured a glass of milk while the toast was finishing, and then returned with the food to the bedroom.

Sherlock was lying there for a little while, starting to doze again when the man came back with a plate of food. Sherlock's stomach clenched at the sight of it, not having eaten in so long.

John set the food down on the nightstand.

"Here, come on," John whispered, reaching for the boy’s shoulders and easing him into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard.

Sherlock winced as he was moved up into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard.

"You can trust me, now. I'm a doctor. Well," John corrected, "I'm training to be a doctor." He reached for the glass of milk, setting the lip of the cup against the Omega’s lips. "Start with a drink of this," John instructed. 

Sherlock turned his head away from the glass at first, but his throat was dry, and he looked down at the milk. He sighed, taking a small sip of it, the milk almost felt thick moving down his throat. He winced as he shifted again.

"Hurts," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's because your throat is cracked. The thickness of the milk will act like a balm and make it better, I promise." John tamped down his rage at the fact that the boy hadn't been fed in four days. "Either that, or I'm taking you to the hospital, and they can treat you. Because I don't like seeing you in pain."

Sherlock let out a breath. It wasn't just his throat that hurt though, and he doubted a bit of milk would make his side stop hurting. Still, he took another mouthful of the milk, then another, setting his head back and licking his lips again.

Sherlock coughed a couple times, then shook his head weakly. "Don... don' want hospital..." He'd never liked the places, and that was before. Now, who knew what they'd say, or what would happen. He might just end up in a place like where he had been.

"We'll take it easy, then," John replied, wincing at the obvious pain the Omega was in. "You may as well lie back down. I'm not going to push your stomach with food right now."

He helped ease the boy down onto his back, pressing on his shoulder to keep him there. "I know your side hurts, but if you have cracked ribs, then it's best to stay on your back."

Sherlock winced as he was moved again, and he just wanted to curl up again.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Why... why aren't you like them?" he asked, lifting his hand to look at the bandaging on his wrist. He reached over for the glass, wanting a bit more. "And... I don't think they're broken again, jus' hurts," he mumbled.

John helped the boy take another drink of the milk before moving to check his bandages – he wouldn't take them off to change them until tonight.

Sherlock drank down a couple mouthfuls of the milk, which settled half uncomfortably in his stomach.

"Like who? The arseholes at the auction house?" John nearly spat the words, looking away so that he had time to compose himself before he went back to looking over the boy's wounds.

"Yes... like them," Sherlock breathed. "Not like... other Alphas," he mumbled, remembering being told not to expect better than he had already, and that the one difference would be that instead of being locked in a room alone through his heats he'd be taken during them.

Just the thought of not being alone during that time was nice, but not if it was one of them. They never did that during his heat though – liked to hear the Omegas beg for it, but never once laid a finger on them during that time; it was torture.

John sighed, "What's your name?"

"’m Sherlock," he mumbled.

"Hello, Sherlock. My name's John."

John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's side, feeling for cracked ribs under the bruise. He didn't find any, like Sherlock had suggested, but he suspected that the bones were bruised as well.

"I don't know," John answered after a moment, returning to their previous engagement. "I was raised in a family of Omegas, I guess." He shrugged, leaning over Sherlock to check a bruise on his shoulder. "My mum had me before she met my dad, and they decided to have another a short while later, even if Dad wouldn't actually be the father. All three of them were Omegas."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, listening quietly. He winced when John pressed lightly on his side, trying to roll onto his other one a little and curl up again.

"Why... why were you even there?" Sherlock asked, his eyes trying to pull shut again.

"A friend of mine dragged me along," John explained briefly, letting Sherlock curl up. "I'm glad he did." He ran his hand through Sherlock's curly hair, even though it was filthy, and down his neck to soothe across his back. "Sleep if you need to. I'll be down the hall and will be able to hear if you wake," he whispered, instinctively pressing a soft kiss to the boy's temple.

Sherlock was asleep already by the time the hand was moving down his neck towards his back, breathing evenly, though it was a little raspy. He coughed a few times in his sleep, not stirring for anything else.

Sherlock slept for another couple hours or so before he woke up, blinking a few times and wondering why he had. It took him four seconds to realise why, and he lurched out of the bed, ignoring the pain in his side and quickly stumbled through the other door, which he hoped led to a bathroom.

Thankfully he was correct, and thankfully the toilet was the first thing there before he bent over it, his stomach flipping, and expelling its contents. He sat back when he was done, leaning against the cool porcelain of the tub, which felt nice against his flushed, somewhat damp skin.

John was on his feet as soon as he heard movement, and he winced when he heard the obvious sounds of retching.

"Sherlock?" John called, politely knocking on the bathroom door before he stepped inside, lowering himself to the floor beside the pale boy.

John reached out, resting his fingers on Sherlock's forehead to take his temperature. "God, you're burning up. What the hell were they doing to you?" he murmured, mostly to himself. "I need to get you to a hospital. Something else is wrong if your stomach can't even handle some milk."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, the foul taste still in his mouth. He shook his head weakly. "N-no... no hospital... don' want," Sherlock mumbled, his head rolling to rest on his shoulder as he leant sideways a bit. "’m jus’ tired." 

"Sherlock, please, you have to trust me." John moved so that he was crouching in front of the boy, reaching out to cup his cheek gently. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, alright? And I will never, ever let you anywhere near an auction house again."

John’s eyes burned with sincerity, his thumb stroking Sherlock's un-bruised cheekbone. "But if this is what I think it is, you need a hospital."

Sherlock coughed a couple times, dragging his distant eyes up to meet John's. He swallowed, mumbling a little incoherently, shaking his head a small bit, wondering just what John thought it was.

"’m jus’... tired, jus’ wan' sleep," Sherlock murmured, his head rolling forward a bit. 

"No, please," John begged, not wanting to force the Omega to do anything. "I think there's a hole in your stomach lining from not eating for so long, and adding food right now is just going to make it worse. Sherlock, please."

Sherlock frowned a little, coughing again. Hole in his... what? He couldn't think straight. He was so tired, he didn't care, just wanted to sleep.

John cupped both of Sherlock’s cheeks, his panic increasing as he forced their eyes to meet. "Please, I want to meet the real you, when you're not starved and weak. I'm begging you to listen to me."

"Mmkay," Sherlock mumbled. "Mmkay..." he repeated, wetting his lips as he started to slip again, eyes pulling shut.

John reached out, reacting immediately. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and behind his knees, lifting him into his arms once more.

John paused in the kitchen long enough to grab his wallet and his keys and then he was gone, hailing a cab as soon as he was on the street.

"Bart's hospital," John instructed the cabbie, holding Sherlock against him with an arm across his shoulders. 

Sherlock woke up to the familiar motion of a vehicle, and he pulled his eyes open a little to see street lights passing. He licked his lips a little, looking around and seeing the inside of a cab.

"Where... where going?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head up a little and looking at John. His stomach was in knots, and he almost felt like he was going to be sick again, but what could there be left for him to sick up? 

John furrowed his brow, twisting a little towards Sherlock and brushing his fingers gently through the hair at his temple.

"Easy," John whispered. "We're going to the hospital, remember? You have a potential hole in your stomach lining." He was worried about the lack of short term memory the boy seemed to be having, realising that it was probably caused by undernourishment.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, looking around again.

"Mmm, n-no... no, no hospital," Sherlock mumbled, coughing.

The cab pulled to a stop then, outside of a white building.

Sherlock shook his head weakly, lurching up with a wince from the pain in his side, tossing open the door and spilling out of the cab, stumbling a little.

John quickly tossed a twenty at the cabbie and jumped out after Sherlock, catching him above the elbow and pulling him back against him.

"No, Sherlock, listen. You promised that you would go. You're going to die if you don't go in there," John whispered, bringing his other hand up to gently cup Sherlock's neck. "Trust me," he begged, his voice laced with emotion. "Nothing will happen to you."

Sherlock swayed a little, looking at John. He blinked a couple times, then bobbed his head in a small nod. They were turned towards the doors and started towards them, himself practically leaning against John for balance.

Sherlock’s stomach clenched as they got closer, and he doubled over, getting sick again on the pavement just outside the doors. He looked down at it, furrowing his brows when he saw the red mixed into it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which got a small smear on it.

"Maybe... need be here," Sherlock said, before his knees went out, and he collapsed again.

_God, yeah, you think?_  John thought sarcastically to himself.

John's arm tightened around Sherlock when he collapsed, pulling him back up into his arms.

"Don't throw up on me, I haven't got a change of clothes," John teased as he quickly pushed his way inside, calling for help once he was in the lobby.

Sherlock groaned a little, muttering some unintelligible comment along the lines of how the jumper John wore might be improved if he  _did_  throw up on him, but he wasn't sure how much of the comment made it through his mouth.  

Nurses ran out from behind the reception desk, asking what had happened.

John explained the situation as best as he could, not knowing all of the details but knowing enough. "Look, I think his stomach lining has a hole in it. His vomit has been laced with blood. He needs a doctor, now."

One of the nurses ran off, two others pushing through the door with a gurney that John lowered Sherlock onto.

Sherlock felt himself set down on a bed, and tried to sit up a little.

"MmJohn... wha’s going… to happen?" Sherlock asked, swallowing thickly, the bright lights on the ceiling seeming too bright. "Hurts…" he said, not sure if he meant his stomach or his side; both perhaps? 

John trotted along beside the gurney as Sherlock was wheeled from the lobby, knowing he wouldn't be able to stay with him the whole time.

"They're going to take you in for surgery and fix the hole in your stomach," John explained, squeezing the pale hand reassuringly. "I'm also going to ask them to put some nutrients in you to help jump start your metabolism."

John looked up, seeing the operation doors at the end of the hall. "I promise that nothing will happen. If something goes wrong, they're going to have a  _very_ pissed off Alpha on their hands." He squeezed Sherlock's hand one last time before he reached his boundary and could go no further.

Sherlock's eyes widened a little at the word surgery, trying to sit up more, but a nurse pressed his chest down. His heart was speeding up in his chest, and he shook his head.

"I- no.... no, I don't want... please…" he said, still trying to get up from the bed. 

John heard a nurse call for anaesthesia before he turned away, and he rolled his eyes affectionately, though pain at the thoughts of what this boy had gone through to make him so afraid tightened around his chest.

With a heavy sigh and the hopes the Sherlock calmed down so that he would get better, John made his way back to the waiting room, filling out paperwork and finally resting in a chair against the far wall.

***

Sherlock strained weakly against the hands now holding him down, a small noise escaping him as he felt a needle slide into his arm. He squirmed, but something was pushed into the line, and he let out a breath, the lights around him getting halos around them before they went out altogether, his eyes rolling back into his head as he went limp on the gurney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was drawn by [sakibatch](http://sakibatch.tumblr.com/) for this chapter. Thank you so much!


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later a doctor moved into the waiting room with a clipboard, reading a name off it. "I'm looking for a Dr John Watson?" he asked, looking up and meeting the gaze of a blond man walking towards him.

John jumped to his feet as soon as his name was called, antsy from sitting so long. He approached the doctor quickly, holding out his hand and shaking the older man's.

"How is he?" John asked, anxious to know, to see Sherlock and find out for himself.

"Follow me," the doctor said, leading John down the hall. "He's doing well, the procedure went well, not too invasive," he said, looking at John. "Bit young aren't you? If you don't mind my asking. Still doing your residency? I feel as though I might have seen you around the hospital," he said, noting the younger man's anxiety.

"I'm technically in my fourth year of school," John replied, following the doctor. "Got ahead of my class a bit and skipped a year, so they threw me into some practice at the hospital."  

"As for the Omega, Sherlock, as you listed him, my main concern with him was his obvious malnutrition and signs of abuse. You don't look the kind to treat an Omega like this, so what's the story?" the doctor asked, stopping outside of a hospital room door.

John looked up at the doctor when they were stopped outside of the door, anxious to go in.

"You're right, I wouldn't, and his condition sickens me." John launched into the story, telling everything that he thought was important. "That's why I was wondering if you'd be able to give him some nourishment while he's unconscious, boost up his metabolism a bit and get some energy in him."

The doctor nodded. "We've got him on a line now, though we don't want him eating for a little while, maybe try some broth tomorrow evening," he said.

"We got him cleaned up while he was under still, taking record of his other... injuries. The state of him... we'd like you to provide the information on the facility you got him from, because, while the sale of Omegas is still unfortunately legal in this country, there are regulations, and I can tell you now," he said, pointing at the closed door, "that is not how they're meant to be treated."

The doctor opened the door slowly, leading John inside to where Sherlock was still unconscious in a hospital bed, cleaned of the grime and with a tube in his arm and wires on his chest monitoring him. 

"He'll be a bit out of it for a while; got him on some sedatives and painkillers – apparently the nurses said he's one of the anxiety types. I don't blame him, poor kid."

The doctor looked at John. "If you're responsible for him, then I'll have someone take your statement on that place," he said. "Stay as long as you like, seeing as he's yours." With that, he left.

John stood just inside of the door for a moment, looking at the cluster of machines located around Sherlock's bed. He walked over, checking one of the monitors and noticing that his blood pressure was high and his blood sugar was low, which would explain at least some of the weakness and anxiety.

He sighed heavily, walking over to the wall and grabbing a chair, bringing it back over beside the bed. He took Sherlock's hand in his, his fingers brushing delicately over the sharply expose knuckles.

"You're going to be alright now," John promised quietly, leaning up to kiss the Omega's forehead before settling back down in the chair.

Sherlock's breaths were steady, measured, and he could hear each one in his head. He felt something warm on his hand, and flexed his fingers a small bit.

Sherlock opened his eyes a crack, the room around him slowly coming into focus. He blinked, dragging his gaze over to see John there.

"Mmm... you're here still," Sherlock mumbled quietly, shifting a small bit before settling again. His side didn't hurt anymore, which was nice – nothing hurt, really. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

John laughed at the comment. "I'm glad to see you awake. And of course I'm still here." He leant forward, cradling Sherlock's hand between both of his.

"Hate hospitals," Sherlock said slowly, a half doped-up smile still on his face. "H-how long... need be here?" he asked.

"You need to be here for at least today, I think. I'm not entirely sure; it's up to the doctor." John shrugged, running his fingertips along the inside of the Omega's wrist.

"You worried me," John whispered. "I honestly thought you were going to be stubborn and not come here. I thought you were going to die." He shook his head, lowering his gaze and staring at the bed sheets.

Sherlock hummed a little, letting out a slow breath. "Wouldn't have... normally," he said. "Detest... hospitals," he said. He felt he had reason to – he'd been in one when he'd been taken the first time.

"’m sorry... bought a half dead Omega... boss don't do refunds," Sherlock said, eyes rolling around a little in their sockets. He swallowed, looking around the room and then up at the IV bags that he was connected to.

John reached up, cupping Sherlock's cheek and directing his gaze back to him.

"You're on painkillers right now, and they're feeding you nutrients into your system." John gestured to the machines and needles responsible. "The hole in your stomach is patched up. I just figured you should know what's been done to you."

"Mmm, painkillers, easy, knew that," Sherlock said. "Ribs don' feel kicked in... stomach bit better," he mumbled.

"Why would I want a refund?" John asked after a while, like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. And it was, to him. "I didn't want an Omega, and yet I came home with you. I could see how malnourished you were from my seat, and I still bought you. No, I wouldn't give you back if they tried to take you from me," he said firmly, dropping his hand to the boy's chest and then letting it slide off to the edge of the bed.

Sherlock looked at John. "K-keeping me?" he asked. "But... ‘m broken," he mumbled, his head fuzzy. "They... broke, said they did. Liked it too," he murmured, widening his eyes a little and blinking a few times. "I am... really... doped-up right now. Don't hurt, even thinking 'bout 'em. Wha' they did," he said, swallowing thickly.

John's stomach knotted at Sherlock's mention of the auction house.

"Sherlock... what did they do to you?" John asked quietly, afraid of the answer and afraid that he was going to go down there and kill every single one of them. "And I don't care if you're broken. I like you." He smiled, squeezing Sherlock's hand and bringing it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. "I just want to make it better."

Sherlock swallowed, wetting his lips a little and letting out a breath.

"They... did what they wanted," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Was... in car accident, s'not so bad, but at hospital. Never liked 'em, but… was fifteen, 'nly had one heat... 'nd they took me from there," he said, swallowing again. "Been there... three years, I think... ‘m eighteen, nineteen if s'past January. Dunno," he said with a small shrug.

Sherlock was quiet again for a bit. "They keep us, all together, and do... what they want. Chores, cleaning, 'nd... other things... but never at a heat," he said, shaking his head. "Don' wan’ pups... put us away for that, s'horrible... hated it," he mumbled, the words continuing to flow from him until he trailed off, looking at the wall a little and spacing out for a moment.

John felt his heart breaking for the young Omega, his hand tightening around Sherlock's fingers as he glared down at the bed, wanting nothing more than to storm back into the auction house and tear all of them to shreds for putting Sherlock through that.

"I promise you, for what it's worth, that I will never, ever, do any of that to you. As soon as you're healed and healthy, you can come and go as you please. I'll buy you new clothes, whatever you want." John looked back up at Sherlock, combing his fingers through his now clean and soft curls. "All of them are going to jail," he promised.

Sherlock blinked slowly, shrugging a small bit. "S'okay... can't feel it right now, not anything," he said. "S'good... not thinking, peaceful for once," he mumbled quietly.

"’m thirsty; can I have water?" Sherlock asked, his mouth dry.

"Yeah, sure," John replied, releasing Sherlock's hand and reaching for the call button.

A nurse came in a short while later, looking expectantly at them. "Can he get some water?" John asked, motioning to Sherlock. The nurse nodded with a smile and disappeared around the corner, coming back a few seconds later with a bottle of water with a straw in it.

"Thank you," John murmured, taking the bottle from her and holding it out to Sherlock until the straw touched his lips. "Easy, now. Small sips," he instructed quietly, vaguely aware of the nurse leaving.

Sherlock lifted his head up a little, wrapping his lips around the straw and drawing a few sips off it. He moaned a little, humming as he took some more of it.

"Tha's perfect," Sherlock murmured, yawning a little. "Thank you," he said with a small smile. 

John smiled softly at Sherlock, brushing his knuckles across his cheek fondly. "Why don't you try to get some rest? I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He drew his hand away and sat back in his chair, still holding onto Sherlock's hand. "I'll wake you if anything important is going on, otherwise I'll let you sleep."

Sherlock watched John holding his hand, so gently too. His forehead was still creased in confusion at it, not used to people acting as such; even before he'd been taken, no one liked him.

Sherlock hummed a little. "Am tired," Sherlock said, looking around the hospital room. The longer he slept, the sooner he'd be leaving the place. He swallowed, already starting to drift off before making the decision to do so. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

About twenty minutes later an officer came into the room, youngish by the looks of things, though he was starting to grey prematurely. "Are you John Watson?" he asked. "Detective Inspector Lestrade; I'm here to take your statement regarding illicit Omega trade," he said. "I was told you had information."

The detective glanced over at the unconscious Omega in the bed, bruised and thin. He swallowed, knowing he'd been lucky to not end up in that kind of situation himself.

John stood up and shook the Omega's hand, looking him up and down. "Yeah, I do. Let's step outside. I don't..." He looked over at Sherlock, sleeping peacefully on the hospital bed. "I don't want him to wake up and hear. The look he gets when he talks about it..." He shook his head, leading the way into the hallway.

John left the door cracked so that he could hear Sherlock if he woke, but otherwise they were alone. He immediately told the DI his story, starting from the morning and going to when they had showed up at the hospital.

"I know you can't take a second-hand statement and that you're going to have to question him, but..." John made a frustrated noise, glancing through the crack to see the Omega still asleep. "They hurt him bad, Inspector."

Lestrade hated writing down every detail, but knew he had to. He, too, glanced back at the Omega in bed.

Lestrade sighed. "Christ," he breathed, shaking his head. "Your statement will be sufficient enough for now; you were there and saw the conditions; for individual accusations though, once we've made arrests, if we're to get the bastard in charge, we'll need him to identify which one. Anonymously of course – we wouldn't jeopardise his security.”

Lestrade looked back at the boy. "Poor sod. I suppose I got rather lucky, almost sent to an Omega house myself, but... someone else showed interest, and we've been bonded since. His influence actually helped me be able to work up to this position; wouldn't tolerate discrimination." He looked back at John. "Things are changing, thank god, and there'll be less stories like his. What did you say his name was? For the record?" 

"Sherlock," John replied, unable to take his eyes off of the Omega, his Omega. "He didn't tell me his last name. Not that I blame him. Christ, in his condition he could barely remember something that had happened twenty minutes prior."

Lestrade blinked once, writing down the name and glancing over to the boy.

John shook his head, turning back to Lestrade. "Thanks for coming down. I hope you nail those bastards and put the lot of them in jail permanently. Most of the Omegas I saw there were just kids, younger than him."

John sighed heavily, running his hands down his face. "Thanks again. And... congratulations. On finding a safe Alpha and bonding." He reached out to shake the Inspector's hand, gripping it firmly.

Lestrade shook John's hand. "Thanks, we'll certainly do our best. I'll be in touch about identifying some of them. Perhaps in a few days, once he's discharged and has had some time to settle, heal," Lestrade said with a nod, leaving down the hall and glancing back once. He turned the corner, pulling out his phone.

John pushed back through the door as soon as the DI was around the corner, resuming his seat in the chair. The Alpha in him wanted to spoon up behind Sherlock and hold him close, keep him warm and safe until he was healed, but he knew that after what the Omega had been through, close contact was probably the last thing Sherlock wanted.

So instead John tried to tame a flyaway curl against his forehead and settled back into the chair, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Sherlock continued to sleep soundly, the only noise in the room coming from the steadily humming machines and the occasional noise of Sherlock's drip administering more morphine on a schedule.

It was about two hours after the DI left that another man pushed the door open slowly, stepping inside. He was tall, and dressed in a rather posh looking suit, holding an umbrella, with slightly receded red hair.

He took another step towards the bed, his eyes locked on the battered Omega in the bed, lips tightening slightly at the sight.

John stood up almost immediately and stepped between the man and the bed where Sherlock was sleeping, his hackles raised.

"Who are you and what do you want?" John demanded quietly, not willing to trust any anonymous person who walked through the door. "I swear, if you're from that damn auction house, you have three seconds to leave before I kill you."

The other Alpha didn't so much as blink.

"Calm yourself, young Dr Watson. I assure you, I mean him no harm. As for that detestable place, it will be in ruin by this evening as I have had say in it," the man said, his gaze moving back over to the bed.

"Tell me, what is your intention with this Omega? A person doesn't go to an auction house without some sort of expectation," the man said, meeting John's gaze. "My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I merely came to visit my baby brother," he said, his gaze steady as he looked at the seething Alpha.

"I have no intentions,” John said. “I was at that auction because my friend dragged me along, and I bought him because I'm a doctor and I wanted to save him. As soon as he's healthy he can do as he wishes." John stared at the other Alpha, trying to glean anything from his expression.

"Wait, you're his brother?" John could somehow believe it, though nothing except their profiles really proved it. "And you let them  _take_   _him_?" He was fighting to keep his voice under control. "He was fourteen; what the hell were you thinking?"

Mycroft's eyes snapped to look at the Alpha – narrowing them was the only tell he had of anger. He leant slightly forward, his voice low. "I did no such thing.  _Let_ them? You really know nothing, do you?" he said coolly.

"Sherlock mentioned an accident, yes? Well as it happens I was in it as well, and was currently getting surgery at the time, so forgive me for not jumping up at the moment. As for our parents well, they were a bit hands off anyway, but it seems they  _let_ him get taken as well, having got so careless in their deaths," Mycroft hissed.

After a moment, Mycroft collected himself again, looking over towards Sherlock. "I was in little position to do anything and have since been working to get there. So do not assume such things, John Watson. Now stand down," he said.

John ducked his head, the anger fading out of him to be replaced by shame and sorrow for the brothers. "Sorry. It's just... seeing him like he was yesterday... I get defensive of him quickly."

John looked back up, meeting the other Alpha's gaze. "You're going to make them all suffer?" It was more of a statement than a question. "All of them, the Beta handlers as well." He turned to look at Sherlock, exposing his back to Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded once. "I intend to, many will not see the light of day again," he said, looking over at Sherlock.

"You bought him then, I am assuming?" the elder Holmes asked, stepping over to the side of the bed and gently brushing that one curl out of Sherlock's eyes that was always running errant. "And brought him here for care, for that I'm grateful," he said, looking up at John.

"Gregory told me what it is they did, what you said they did," Mycroft said, looking at John steadily. "Now comes the decision as to what is best for Sherlock. He is, or was, at any rate, difficult. Stubborn, and highly gifted. I don't know what a place like that would do to him, and there's no real telling. The question is, Dr Watson, with you still starting out, finishing your degree and such, perhaps you'd prefer taking on a more... simple Omega. Someone easier," he said, looking at his brother. "I can take charge of him; you, of course, would have your money returned to you if that's an issue." 

John swallowed, looking down at the young Omega. He was tempted to just flat out say no, and at the same time he was also tempted to say yes. He hadn't wanted an Omega when he went to that auction, but now he couldn't imagine walking out of the hospital without Sherlock beside him.

"I think that should be Sherlock's decision," John finally said, meeting Mycroft's gaze. "I'm not going to force him into anything, now or ever."

Mycroft met John's eyes, staring as if studying him, which of course he was. "That was a very good answer, John," he replied after a couple minutes. "Perhaps, then, we wait for now. I think it best that I leave, see to it that that matter of business is taken care of," he said, talking about the auction house. "We'll need to place the Omegas there into proper Omega houses or hospitals if they need it and such. And I think it better that I am not here when he wakes up; I can't be certain he's still not bitter towards me," he said, looking almost fondly at Sherlock. "History and all that," he said, looking back at John.

Mycroft reached out and took John’s hand, shaking it once. "I'll be in touch," he said, before leaving swiftly.

John stared after the elder Holmes brother for quite a while, completely dumbstruck for countless minutes.

After John had gathered himself, he returned to the chair, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing Sherlock's, and laid his head down. He let out a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes, not intending to fall asleep, but the previous week of cram studying and now over twenty-four hours with no sleep had finally caught up with him, and he was soon drifting off.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock came to a few times, never for that long, though. The first time, he saw John still there and asleep.

Sherlock half wondered why it was that John was even still there, but he didn't ask, oddly finding having an Alpha around comforting.

Sherlock woke up again when a nurse came in to check his vitals and line, smiling down at him softly. He thought he heard her murmur that he could go home that evening, but he dozed off again before he could even say that he wasn't sure he had one.

John finally came awake at the smell of coffee, and he looked around to see a steaming cup set on a table beside his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he blinked blearily at the nurse standing on the other side of Sherlock's bed.

"What time is it?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

She laughed, gesturing at the coffee. "I brought that for you. It's nearly six."

John reached gladly for the Styrofoam cup, taking a sip of the black liquid inside.

"Word's going around the hospital what you did for him," the nurse spoke again, fiddling with Sherlock's saline drip. "I know times are changing, but that was unusually kind of you." She walked over, and John caught a whiff of her Omega scent. "I took him off of anything that's making him tired, and I disconnected the nutrients. He's still going to have morphine running through him for a couple more hours, but after that, he needs to start taking painkillers." She handed him a bottle of pills. "Only one every four hours if you can help it. When he wakes, you're free to leave." She squeezed his shoulder and left the room.

It was a little while later when Sherlock woke up again, his head still fuzzy from morphine, but he didn't have that lethargic lead feeling in his limbs. He blinked his eyes open a few times, taking a deeper breath, his side feeling a little stiff, but not hurting. He dragged his eyes over to see John again, awake now.

"Mmm... hullo," Sherlock mumbled quietly.

"Hey," John whispered, reaching forward to comb his fingers through Sherlock's hair, something the boy seemed to enjoy. "How are you feeling? Ready to go home?" he asked, reaching down for the Omega's hand. "That is, if you want to. I'm not going to force you to come with me, but I would like you to."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, watching John's hand as it moved down to his again. He didn't understand, he didn't like being touched, hated it, and more often than not as of late it had usually been to hurt him. Now though... he found himself not minding so much.

"Um... dunno where else I'd go... not back...." Sherlock said, shaking his head a little. He swallowed, pulling his hand loose and reaching out for the bottle of water still there, thirsty again.

John immediately moved to help him, supporting Sherlock’s shoulders as he drank a bit.

Sherlock took several sips of the water, humming a little.

"No, not back," John agreed. "Never." He set the bottle back down when Sherlock was done and squeezed his fingers.

"You can come back to my place until you're healthy again and then you can decide, okay?" John offered, moving over to the corner of the room where one of the nurses had discretely dropped off a pair of track pants and a long-sleeved shirt. "Will you let me help you?"

Sherlock swallowed, watching John move over to where there was a small pile of clothes.

"Mmm... alright," Sherlock mumbled, sitting up slowly. He winced, his hand moving to where he could feel a small bulge of bandages on his abdomen under the scratchy hospital gown. It wasn't that big.

"Laparoscopic, then?" Sherlock asked about the surgery, blinking slowly.

John blinked at the Omega. "Yes, how did you know?" he asked, pulling the track pants on over Sherlock's legs, sliding them up to his thighs.

Sherlock glanced down at the bandage. "Size, recovery time, the fact that I'm getting let out now… indicative… indicative of minimal invasion procedure. Laparoscopic," he said, his thoughts a little slow as he repeated his reasoning.

John raised his eyebrows, impressed at how sharp Sherlock was, even when he was doped up on Morphine.

"I need you to step down for a moment so that I can get these on the rest of the way," John murmured, steadying Sherlock when he complied and quickly pulling the bottoms up to his hips. "Alright, you can sit back down," he said, easing him back onto the mattress and undoing the ties of the hospital gown.

Sherlock hummed, bringing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up carefully when asked, sitting down quickly again. He winced, trying to ease the gown off his thin frame, tugging at the electrodes stuck to his chest with a wince.

John eased the shirt over Sherlock's head and helped him thread his arms through the arm holes. "I wish you had some shoes, though," he murmured, looking down at the boy's bare feet. "We'll go shopping as soon as you have some strength in you," he promised, steadying Sherlock with a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay to walk if I help you?"

"Hard saying," Sherlock mumbled, moving to stand again. He swayed slightly, finding a bit of balance before taking a couple steps, John's hand still on his shoulder.

At that moment, though, the nurse came back with a wheelchair.

"Hospital procedure, I'm afraid; all the way to the cab," she said, also producing a pair of slippers for Sherlock. "I believe you can take it from here," she said, looking at John. "His paperwork's already been done," she said, turning and leaving.

Sherlock sighed, moving over to the chair and sinking into it.

John smiled at Sherlock, walking up and putting the slippers on his feet. He ruffled the Omega’s hair in good nature before pushing him out of the room, past the lobby, and to the street. He hailed a passing cab that thankfully stopped for them, and helped Sherlock inside.

"I'm going to go return this, I'll be right back." John trotted back to the lobby, leaving the wheelchair in the hands of an orderly and returned to the cab, sliding in beside Sherlock and giving the address to the cabbie.

Sherlock hummed a little when he was helped into the cab and John left, resting his head against the glass window, looking out tiredly. He glanced over when John got back in, checking for a moment that it was actually him. He swallowed when the cab started to move again, his eyes slowly pulling shut as they were moving.

John shuffled over, pulling Sherlock against him, unable to deny the Alpha instincts in him telling him to comfort the hurt Omega.

"Just relax," he murmured, resting Sherlock's head on his shoulder and wrapping his arm across his back, careful not to touch his bruised side. He rested his cheek against the top of the boy's mop of curls, breathing slowly and evenly in an effort to portray calmness and to get Sherlock's breaths to match his.

Sherlock tensed a little when the arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer. He blinked, looking down at it and then glancing up at John, not moving. He let his head fall to the side, resting on John’s shoulder before he even took a breath, relaxing a small bit after doing so, the scent next to him so... different than the others. He was used to getting nervous when he smelled an Alpha nearby.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally, his eyes drooping a small bit as he leant against him.

John smiled to himself, pressing his lips against the top of Sherlock's head and then just holding him. He was glad that Sherlock trusted him enough to at least let him do this.

"I'm sorry that they hurt you," John breathed, hardly loud enough to hear. "I'm so sorry that you had to go through that." He reached out for the Omega's hand, stroking his fingers lightly over his knuckles.

Sherlock heard John murmur something, but couldn't really make it out all the way. He swallowed thickly, glancing out the window as they drove through London. There was a slight chill coming through the cracked window, something that smelled of late autumn.

"What... month is it?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking out of the window through half lidded eyes. 

"Nearly November," John answered quietly, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair again. "You said something about January; I'm assuming that's when your birthday is?" he asked, following Sherlock's gaze out of the window.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, nodding once. "Mhm," he hummed quietly, closing his eyes when the fingers moved through his hair again. "There almost four years then... couldn't tell... time there," he said, eyes still shut.

Sherlock was quiet again for a minute.

"Why... feel nice?" Sherlock mumbled drowsily, head still fuzzy from the morphine. "Hair thing....'nd such. Don' like being touched... normally," he murmured.

John cast a fondly amused look down at the Omega, who was obviously having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that touch could heal as well as harm.

"Maybe I'm special," John said good-naturedly, continuing to comb his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I'm glad you enjoy it. It certainly makes me feel better."

Sherlock hummed a little, a quiet scoff coming from him. _Special?_ He took a breath, letting it out slowly.

"Mmm... dunno, need more data," Sherlock mumbled lazily, his head resting heavily on John's shoulder as he fell asleep again.

John chuckled, nuzzling gently into Sherlock's curls as the Omega fell asleep.

John stared out of the window, watching the grey clouds in the distance and musing to himself about the boy leaning against him. Sherlock was obviously curious, observing everything. 

_No_ , John thought,  _I'm pretty sure you're the special one_.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of his flat, and John paid the fare, sliding out and pulling Sherlock once more into his arms. He knocked on the door again, smiling apologetically at Mrs Hudson when she opened the door.

"Sorry. I didn't want to wake him," John murmured, tightening his hold on Sherlock as he crossed over the threshold.

Mrs Hudson nodded, stepping aside for John and closing the door after he came in. "I'll bring up some nice soup and some nibbles for you boys in a little bit," she whispered, disappearing back into her flat.

Sherlock stirred a little, reaching up in his sleep to rub at his nose a bit before his arm dropped again, soft snores escaping him every few breaths.

John's smile broadened when he caught the undoubtedly adorable gesture from the Omega.

John shifted his hold on Sherlock, climbing the stairs slowly and avoiding the ones that creaked as he made his way up to his flat. He set Sherlock gently down on the bed, pulling the sheets and duvet over him and stroking his knuckles softly across Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock settled onto the bed, shifting a little and mumbling incoherently under his breath.

Sherlock swallowed, wincing a small bit as he moved, some of the morphine wearing off as he slept, though he didn't wake up yet.

John settled onto the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, unable to keep from touching him  _somewhere_.

John sighed heavily, wishing he could just snap his fingers and put Sherlock back to normal, but he knew that the Omega needed time to heal on his own, even if it had been possible to set him right in an instant.

John looked up at a soft knock on the door, smiling as Mrs Hudson came in with a tray of soup and crackers, a teapot and a couple of mugs balanced in the centre.

"Thank you," John whispered, squeezing her hand as she made to leave. As soon as she was gone, he combed through Sherlock's hair and cupped his cheek, gently stirring him awake with his hands and his voice.

Sherlock's face pinched a little as he started to wake up, a small noise coming from him. He tried to roll on his side to curl up, but whimpered a little, his abdomen hurting where the bandages were, also more on his left side along with his boot print. He furrowed his brows, eyes opening slowly and taking a moment to focus before he winced.

"Hurts," Sherlock muttered quietly, closing his eyes again.

"I know," John said quietly, "that's why I woke you."

John reached into his pocket for the painkillers, tipping one of the white pills onto his palm. He poured tea into one of the mugs as well, smiling happily when he noticed that it was iced tea. How Mrs Hudson always knew, he wasn't sure, but he was glad for it.

"Here, come on, sit up. Take this and then I want to get a little broth in you before you go to sleep again."

Sherlock looked at the cup and the small bowl of soup and wrinkled his nose a little. He didn't feel like eating, his stomach feeling… well not bad, but off. He pushed himself up a little, leaning back against the headboard.

Sherlock looked at the pill in his palm and popped it in his mouth, swallowing it with the smallest sip of tea he could manage. The cool liquid felt amazing on his throat, though, and he took a few more sips from it, sighing softly.

"Don' want broth," Sherlock murmured.

John brushed some of the Omega's hair away from his temple, only to have it fall back in place.

"Stomach hurt?" John asked quietly, setting the mug of tea down and moving closer to Sherlock. "Hopefully the painkillers will help."

Sherlock shrugged a little, feeling neutral about his stomach for now. He let out a breath.

John looked at the boy for a moment longer, noting the tired lines around his eyes. "You can go back to sleep. I'll be in the living room, hopefully doing the same."

John stood from the bed, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead as was becoming habit. "Call me if you need anything."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, stunned, when John's lips pressed to his forehead and he looked around the room a little.

"This... is your bed," Sherlock said quietly, sitting up a bit. "Don't want to put you out of it," he mumbled, bringing his legs slowly over the edge of the bed. Part of him was almost tempted to ask John to stay, but that would be ridiculous, sentimental, and something quite out of character for him now. Maybe once, but not since that place. He stomped out anything of the sort there, and most of the time only responded with fear when that was his body’s stupid biological response to those other Alphas.

John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulder's, half tempted to push him back onto the mattress and tell him to stay there, instead just holding him in place.

"Don't be ridiculous," John chided softly. "You're hurting, and I can handle sleeping on the couch. There's a room upstairs that I can add on to the rent for myself once you're better, but until then I don't want to be out of earshot." He moved his hands to cup Sherlock's neck, tipping his chin up with his thumbs. "Lie back down, please."

Sherlock met John’s eyes for a moment when his head was tilted up, then sighed, lying back and carefully rolling onto his right side.

"I don't want to be in the way. Or raise your rent," Sherlock stated quietly. "Already cost you enough money ‘m sure," he mumbled as well, sighing again. He bit back the urge to ask once more for him to stay, because that was just ridiculous. _Of course it was_ , he told himself. 

"Well, then I only have two options," John said quietly, sitting down on the bed again and stroking his hand along Sherlock's shoulders. "The smart option would be for me to go sleep on the couch, but..." he sighed, his hand pausing at the nape of the Omega's neck.

"But," John tried again, "the more pleasant option would be sharing the bed with you, which is what the Alpha in me has been demanding since you showed up." He leant down and kissed Sherlock's temple, moving to nuzzle against his neck, where his scent was strongest. "I just don't want to force you to do something you don't want to do."

Sherlock tensed up a small bit, his breath catching a little. He swallowed, not sure how to answer.

Part of him wanted John to stay, because he felt safer, and didn't call him “Omega” or “pup” or other things. That, and he hadn't laid a harsh hand on him.

But then again, Sherlock couldn't help the somewhat nervous feeling as well. Share the bed with him – he'd never done that, having always been kicked back to the Omega room where they were all kept after, but it was still somewhat nerve-wracking.

Sherlock felt conflicted, trying not to lean into the touch at his neck – that'd make him weak and sentimental and... He huffed a sigh, weaving his fingers up into his hair.

"I don't know..." Sherlock said, shutting his eyes, conflict radiating off of him. 

John furrowed his brow at the obvious discomfort coming from Sherlock.

"Easy," John whispered, reaching up to unwind Sherlock’s hand from that thick mop of dark curls. He held Sherlock's hand gently between both of his, kissing his knuckles softly. "I'll just go," he murmured, squeezing the Omega's fingers one more time before he walked over to the chest of drawers, pulling out some pyjamas for himself and heading for the door.

Sherlock let out a breath, biting down on his lip as John left. He didn't want John to go, but he did, but he didn't.

Sherlock sighed, wrapping his arms around himself lightly. It was better that way, wasn't it?  _Yes of course it was._  He let out a breath again, whatever was in the painkiller working quickly. He swallowed, starting to doze off and falling asleep rather quickly.

John had changed in the bathroom, and by the time he had returned to toss his clothes in the hamper, Sherlock had been asleep. Smiling softly to himself, he made his way out into the living room and curled up on the couch, falling into a light sleep.

\----------------------------------------------------------

A couple hours later, Sherlock curled a little tighter, a whimper coming from him. His face was pinched, his breathing a little irregular, small noises coming from him as he slept.

***

It wasn't until a few hours later that John woke up. At first he wasn't sure what had brought him back to consciousness, and then he heard the whimpers from the bedroom. He jumped to his feet, trotting down the hall and pushing past the door to find Sherlock obviously wrapped up in a nightmare.

John walked to the bed, cupping the Omega's face.

"Sherlock, wake up. It's alright, it's just a dream." John tapped Sherlock’s cheek lightly, shaking his shoulder.

Sherlock whimpered again, curling up a little more, the painkillers making him harder to rouse from sleep. He mumbled quietly, none of the words coherent save for quiet ‘no’s and ‘please’s.

Sherlock huffed out a stressed breath, kicking off a blanket.

John shook him harder, practically yelling his name. "Sherlock! Wake  _up_!"

When the Omega finally jumped awake with what could only be described as a yelp of pain, John backed off, holding up his hands.

"It's alright, you're alright. It was only a nightmare, none of it was real," John told Sherlock reassuringly, lowering his hands back down to his sides and timidly approaching the bed. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly, hesitating on reaching out to comfort the boy.

Sherlock's breathing was rapid, eyes moving wildly around the room and falling on John finally. He swallowed thickly, feeling his face warm in embarrassment before burying it in the pillow, curling as much as he could without it hurting, shaking and holding back the urge to sob that came out of nowhere.

God, he felt so...small.

John's resolve finally broke, his Alpha instincts taking over. He pulled the blankets back and crawled underneath them, rolling onto his side and spooning up behind Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around his waist, conscious of his injuries and where not to touch him, and pressed his hand against the Omega's chest, holding him back against John. He pressed gentle kisses to the back of Sherlock's neck, humming soothingly, his body unconsciously producing pheromones aimed at calming the distressed Omega.

Sherlock frowned, tensing as he felt the arms wrap around him, another body pressing close. He swallowed, not realising his cheeks were a little damp. He took a couple choked breaths, his pulse starting to slow a little. He hiccupped, looking down at the hand that was laid over his heart, as if that somehow was making it slow.

Sherlock felt a tug in his chest, and tried to ignore it, but his body got the best of him and he leant back against John, letting out a slow breath, his red rimmed eyes looking across the room. He licked his chapped lips, feeling John's breath on the nape of his neck, his own breathing starting to match that of the Alpha’s.

How did John do that? Normally that made his stomach tie in knots.

"Mm... th-thank you," Sherlock found himself murmuring quietly, not realising at the time how panicked he'd been. "I don't know why I... normally I'm better at just... turning it off," he said. "Must be the drugs," he mumbled.

John sighed quietly, nuzzling against the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"You don't have to thank me," John whispered, stroking his free hand through the Omega's hair, though the position was a little awkward for himself. "Don't blame the drugs; the drugs are helping," he teased gently, continuing to hold Sherlock possessively.

Sherlock didn't say anything to that. Sure they helped with the pain, but they made it harder to think, and he was more going on Omega instincts. The Omega in him was craving this apparently, and even thinking was hard as of late the way he'd been treated.

"You can go back to sleep, I've got you," John promised, having no more intentions of leaving.

"’m not sure I can," Sherlock mumbled after a couple minutes, though despite his words, his eyes closed and he was asleep again within another few minutes, snoring softly.

John smiled softly to himself, nuzzling against Sherlock's skin. He felt as if he should stay awake, even though he knew how stupid that was. He needed sleep so that he could look after Sherlock, and that's all there was to it. So he closed his eyes, his arm banding tighter around Sherlock's chest, until he drifted off into his best sleep in three days.

Sherlock slept for another few hours, his breathing staying even, and he didn't dream once, least of all of that place. He woke up in the early morning, blinking his eyes a few times. He realised that his hand was closed around a wrist near his chest, and he remembered before.

Sherlock took a breath, smelling John behind him, feeling his breath on his neck. He hummed a little, his side aching a bit again. He stayed quiet though, trying to process what he felt and decide if it wasn't good.

John groaned in protest when he felt Sherlock stir awake, but that was all it took for him to be pulled from sleep as well. He hummed contently when he found Sherlock still completely flush against him, and he nuzzled against the back of his neck.

"Morning," John murmured. "I think it's morning, at least," he mused, pushing himself onto his elbow and rubbing his eyes. "How are you feeling? Time for more painkillers?"

Sherlock hummed a little, then nodded. "Yes," he said, hating that he'd said it. "Even if I can't... think with them," he mumbled quietly.

"’m okay," Sherlock said in response to John’s other inquiry, looking over and seeing the cold tea, well warmer now since it was iced. He reached out carefully and took up the cup, draining it all the way, his mouth dry.

"Stomach feeling better?" John inquired, standing from the bed and pouring more tea into the mug before dumping a pill into his palm and handing it over to Sherlock. "I'd like to try and get something sustainable in you today, if you'll let me."

Sherlock swallowed, taking the pill and swallowing it down with more tea. He nodded a little. "Um, yeah, a bit," he said.

John reached out and brushed softly at Sherlock's hair, his own growling stomach reminding himself that he hadn't eaten in over two days now.

Sherlock sat up slowly, feeling at his bandages under the t-shirt. "I have to change this at all?" he asked, dodging the question about food.

John shook his head, moving his hands to cover Sherlock's. "Not today. I should change the ones on your wrists, though."

John met Sherlock's gaze, for the first time seeing a hit of a spark in the depths of his mercurial eyes. "You sound better today," John noted, rolling the shirt down to cover the Omega's side. "More alert, at least." He had noticed the way Sherlock had avoided the food question, and he sighed. "Why are you so against putting something in your stomach? Even a little broth?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing, no reason," he said, looking down at his wrists. "Just not used to it I guess. And I don't  _feel_  hungry. Probably a reaction to the surgery," he mumbled quietly, looking down still, propped up against the headboard.

John furrowed his brow, concern for the Omega running through him. He reached out, cupping his cheek and turning his head so that their gazes met again.

Sherlock let out a breath. "I will have some if you wish," he said, swallowing again.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to force you to do anything. I'm just trying to help, that's all," John said quietly, stroking his thumb across his cheekbone.

Sherlock blinked once, and nodded. "You've made it clear, yes," he said, still feeling a bit confused by it all. Someone caring, it was... intriguing. His own parents hadn't been this attentive when he was a child, only his brother had cared really and – he blinked, taking himself from that train of thought. 

_Gone,_  Sherlock thought,  _all gone._  

"I'll try some," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded happily, standing from the edge of the bed. "I'll go heat it up." He grabbed the two bowls of soup, one a beef stew, the other just broth, and moved to make for the kitchen.

He paused just inside of the door, looking back at Sherlock. "I'm glad you're more alert. I like it when you speak proper sentences." He winked and then quickly disappeared, reheating both bowls in the microwave and returning to the bedroom. He climbed into bed beside Sherlock, holding his bowl of broth.

"Can you manage on your own or would you like help? And don't be stubborn about it."

Sherlock was picking at the bandages on his wrist a little while John was gone from the room, not looking up when he came in and sat down. He glanced over at the bowl, blinking a couple times before taking it from him and holding it in his lap. He swallowed, then sighed.

"What makes you think I'm stubborn?" Sherlock muttered quietly, flinching a fraction as if expecting punishment for the words. He let out a breath, then lifted the bowl of broth to his mouth, sipping off of it a little as the warm liquid moved down his throat. 

John moved his spoon around his own bowl of soup, pushing at carrot chunks and finally taking a bite of beef before he answered. "Your refusal to go to the hospital, the way you didn't want to really do anything the first time I suggested it. And I can see it in your eyes. My sister had the same look."

John looked over at the wall, his eyes unfocused as he ate mechanically, not really tasting the food.

Sherlock took another sip of the broth, taking a small glance at John. "And you're setting a wonderful example right now for eating," he stated, no longer looking at John. He drank a bit more broth down, setting it aside to settle in his stomach.

Sherlock leant back against the headboard again, picking once more at the bandages on his wrist.  He glanced over at John. "Something's bothering you," he said, not in question.

John blinked himself into a more alert state, setting down his mostly empty bowl before he spilled it.

"What? No, I'm fine." He shook his head, glancing over at Sherlock and noting his picking at the tape around his wrists. John stood from the bed, padding into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit before returning, sitting down again and pulling out what he would need to re-bandage the Omega's wrists.

"Can I see your wrists?" John asked, holding out his hand.

Sherlock looked at him, then complied, holding out one wrist.

"Do you always stare off into empty space when you eat?" Sherlock asked, the sentence a little slowed as the painkiller kicked in more, but he wasn't as drowsy this time. "Don't blame you, but I thought I did that out of isolation and nothing better to do in an attempt to not be where I was," he mumbled, watching John unwrap his wrist.

John tossed the old bandage into the trash bin, turning Sherlock's wrist over to look at the healing wounds.

"That's not what I was doing. I just got hit by a memory and couldn't pull myself out of it," John mumbled, not looking up at Sherlock as he put some medicine on his wrist and wrapped it in a clean bandage, taped it, and then moved onto the other. Surprisingly, he wasn't bothered at all by the way Sherlock had persisted or seen through him, instead finding it a bit... cool.

"Something to do with your sister?" Sherlock asked. "I won't press... n-not my place, you just got quiet after that," he mumbled, taking his other wrist back as John started on the next one. He looked over at the door, and then down again. 

"You're allowed to ask questions, Sherlock," John told him. "Be yourself around me, please." He finished wrapping the Omega's wrist but continued to hold his hand, staring down at his knuckles.

"Harry was caught by some traders when we were kids. They were going to take me, too, until they learnt that I was an Alpha. I tried to fight them, to get her back, but I was only ten, and they were huge Betas." John blinked, scrubbing a hand over his face. "She escaped when I was sixteen, and she came home. She refused to tell us how, to just be glad that she was back. She started drinking, badly. Two years later, a month after I started at university, all of them were taken."

Sighing heavily, John returned Sherlock's hand and packed up the kit, setting it on the floor with the knowledge that he would need it tomorrow.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, looking at John. How had he not known that? He never would have brought it up, why he wasn't sure, normally he didn't care. Anything he could get on the handlers and Alphas at the house, though punishable, was worth it.

"When you say all of them..." Sherlock said slowly. John's parents were both Omegas then? He thought he remembered him saying something along those lines, but his head had been so fuzzy then. It wasn't as common, two Omegas having children, almost unheard of. Many male Omegas weren't fertile, he knew. 

"Yeah, um," John cleared his throat, staring down at his hands.

John had never told anyone what happened to his family. As far as most people knew, John came from a traditional Alpha/Omega family. His better friends, though they knew his background, thought his family lived in the country.

 "Mum had me because of a relationship she'd been in with an Alpha. Dad knew he was infertile, at least that way, but they both wanted another kid, so mum went out and got knocked up again."

Sherlock looked at John, then down. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. He swallowed. "There's been no sign of them? That's what, three years?" he asked, looking at John again.

"No, there hasn't been any sign of them. And I've looked. God, I looked." John glanced over at Sherlock, reaching out for his hand and unconsciously threading their fingers together.

"I knew someone once, worked where they could help. Find them," he said quietly, not really wanting to think much about his brother. "But they're gone now..." he said.

"I heard what happened to your parents, and I'm sorry. I know... I know what it's like to lose family." John scrubbed his face with his free hand, debating how he should tell Sherlock about his encounter with the Omega’s brother.

John decided to be blunt. "Your brother told me about them." He left it at that, watching Sherlock closely to see his reaction.

Sherlock's brows pulled together a little when John said he'd heard about his parents, then looked up quickly at the mention of Mycroft. "My brother?" he asked, his face pinched in confusion. He took his hand back, tangling his fingers together in his lap. "My brother's dead," he said. "They're all dead, the accident..." he said, shaking his head. That was impossible.

Mycroft had been twenty-one at the time. They were driving somewhere for a holiday when it happened, but he'd worked in the government at the time, and had a little pull. He refused to believe that he'd been somewhere for four years and never been found.

Sherlock had assumed that they were gone, because why else would he just rot there? He swallowed, shaking his head again.

"Hey, hey, easy," John murmured, cupping Sherlock's face until he stopped shaking his head so violently. He leant back then, letting Sherlock have his space.

"He came into the hospital while you were sleeping and got really mad when I defended you. He told me about what happened – briefly, and I doubt it was on purpose. He said he's been trying to find you and get you since you were taken." John looked down at his lap before glancing back up at Sherlock. "I'm actually surprised you didn't smell him on me when you woke up. He has a very particular scent."

Sherlock looked down at the bed, his eyes boring into the bedding. "Yes well, being chock full of morphine didn't help," he said, setting his jaw a little. He sat up a little more, sliding out of the bed. He stood up a little unsteadily.

"Bathroom," Sherlock mumbled, shuffling into it and sitting on the toilet. He weaved his fingers up into his hair. Mycroft wouldn't just leave him, he would have found him surely? Why didn't Mycroft stay? If it was really him.

John had to fight down his instincts to help, sitting still as Sherlock left the room. He sighed, wondering if it had been the best idea to tell the young Omega about his brother. Frustrated, he felt like throwing something but didn't, instead shoving off of the bed and walking into the kitchen with their soup bowls and the pot of iced tea, the former of which were placed in the sink, the latter in the fridge.

On his way back into the bedroom, John paused by the bathroom door. "Sherlock..." he sighed. "I know this isn't the best time, but eventually I have to take you down to NSY for a statement. A DI stopped by while you were in the hospital and got mine. I'd like to find him again."

Sherlock looked up towards the door, sighing a little. "Tedious," he muttered under his breath, ruffling his hair a little. He stood up, looking out into the mirror.

It was the first time he'd seen himself in what felt like forever. He had a bruise on his right cheek, and his hair was much longer than he liked it to be. He was thin too, and that was by his standards.

Sherlock finally walked over to the door, pulling it open a little. He peeked out, leaning his head on the door. "He never got me," he said quietly, not meeting John's eyes. "Mycroft... he always got me out of trouble I… he just... he never came," he said. "It was easier him being dead like them," he said.

John reached out before he could stop himself and pulled Sherlock down into a hug.

Sherlock blinked, not expecting the embrace, but he let out a breath, not pushing away either.

"I know," John whispered, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I've been imagining my family dead because it just... it's better than thinking of where they could be." He pulled back, looking Sherlock up and down.

"Shopping first?" John offered, tugging at the hem of the long-sleeved t-shirt. "A hair cut if you want it; I don't know how you usually do your hair." He shrugged sheepishly. "Unless you just want to go to the Yard and come immediately back."

Sherlock looked down, shrugging a little. "I don't want to go," he said quietly. "To the Yard, I don't... why am I needed there? Omega's get sold, they're known to get taken. It's just how it is," he mumbled.

"Things are changing, Sherlock," John said quietly. "And even if they weren't, there are regulations. And that house, how they treated you..." He looked away, flexing his jaw. "It's unacceptable, and they want you to go down so that they can pin the bastard responsible." John huffed, moving back into the bedroom and flopping in a very undignified manner onto the bed.

Sherlock lingered in the door of the bathroom, stepping back in for a moment to actually go and wash his hands, splashing a bit of water on his face and then drinking a little. He moved back into the room, lowering himself carefully onto the bed.

"Well, I was in there a while. I suppose it is possible some new regulations came out or something..." Sherlock mumbled. He swallowed, a bit of fear bubbling under the surface of his calm that he worked to keep as a front.

"They... they have them there, then?" Sherlock asked. "The Alphas and handlers?" 

John slid his hand across the sheets until his fingers brushed against Sherlock's, and he left them there, just touching.

"I don't know." John shook his head. "Your brother, Mycroft, he said that he was going after them last night. I made him promise to make them suffer, but I don't know exactly what was done to them or where they are now." He parted his eyelids, looking over at Sherlock. "If they are there, I'll die before I let them touch you again."

Sherlock wet his lips a little, lying back on the bed with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. "I-I'll go," he said quietly, turning his head to look at John. "If you're going," he said, looking back up at the ceiling again, ears reddening at what he had said.

_Sentimental..._

John smiled, rolling over to kiss the Omega's cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, glad Sherlock had agreed. "And of course I'm going. Who else is going to be there to kill someone if you're in danger?"

John nuzzled against Sherlock's neck, trying to make him lighten up a bit. "Now, about your clothes..." he trailed off with a light wink. "I'm not trying to be pushy, I just want you to feel comfortable. I have the feeling that track pants aren't really your thing."

Sherlock pushed himself up a bit, looking at his clothes. "I haven't had a 'thing' in some time, and it's certainly more comfortable than the last one," he said, rolling onto his side. "What is it you're suggesting?" he asked quietly.

John shrugged, combing his fingers idly through Sherlock's errant curls, letting himself get lost in their texture for a moment. "Whatever you see that you like. There's a large store that I know of, and I used to shop there until I started fancying jumpers." He smiled kindly at the Omega. "Anyway, they've got a large selection, a little bit of everything. We can get you some shoes and two or three outfits to start."

Sherlock closed his eyes a little, humming. "That's very distracting," he murmured quietly, letting out a breath.

"Sorry." John immediately stopped, unsure if distracting was a good or bad thing, and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder instead.

Sherlock looked back at John. "I don't want to be a disturbance, or a burden on you," he said quietly.

"A burden? Please. I want to, and basically if you don't come with me and pick out what you want, I'm buying you jeans and t-shirts. But I _want_  to get you something, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a breath, shifting a little on the bed. "Don't want to walk around a lot, still tired," he murmured quietly. "Maybe just... Yard and back for now?" he asked, looking back up at John.

Smiling softly, John cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Of course. Just let me get dressed and then we can head out."

Sherlock nodded once, sitting himself up slowly in the bed, his hand on his side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't wait until Monday ^_^

John slowly rolled from the bed, walking over to the chest of drawers, grabbing a pair of jeans, a jumper, and a shirt, and headed for the bathroom to change.

Sherlock winced a little, listening to John in the bathroom. He stood up, crossing over to the window and peeking out the curtains, the sun having risen all the way now. He blinked a few times, looking up at the bit of sky that he could see, sighing.

"Everything alright?" John asked when he had returned, dropping his pyjamas on the ground in front of the chest of drawers and trying, without much success, to flatten his bed hair.

John walked over behind Sherlock, loosely wrapping his arms around him to avoid his side, and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the city beyond the window.

Sherlock looked down at the arms around his waist, quirking an eyebrow before looking back up out the window.

"No," Sherlock said, despite many things feeling not alright. But that was just unfamiliarity. He let out a breath, tilting his head up to look at the sky again. "It was dark the last two times I was outside and even partially conscious, not that I remember them that clearly, I can hardly recall going to the hospital," he explained. "I have not been outside in... a while," he said.

John's stomach clenched in sympathy, his eyes closing tightly for three seconds before he parted them again, pressing kisses along the back of Sherlock's neck.

"You'll be fine," John promised, his fingers skimming Sherlock's waist through the shirt. "I'll be there, and I won't leave." He dropped his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "It's not so bad out there. Not much has changed."

"Mm." Sherlock's quiet hum was his only response.

Sherlock blinked. "You keep doing that," he noted, not negatively, just stating fact. “The kissing thing, and touching," he said, turning his head to look at John. "They never did... it's… different," he said.

"I'll stop if you want me to. It's just... I don't know. I feel so helpless, like there's nothing I can do for you." John sighed, looking up at Sherlock and meeting his sharp gaze. "It just makes me feel like I'm doing something. And I enjoy it, so there's that." He shrugged, nuzzling against Sherlock's shoulder.

"I've heard I'm not like most Alphas," John conceded, blinking slowly at the boy.

"You're not," Sherlock answered simply. He looked down, and then towards the window.

"And one could argue that you've done everything for me, seeing as had you not bought me, and had someone else, well... for one, I probably would have vomited blood all night until my stomach acid ate away at the rest of my internal organs and I'd probably have died from sepsis," Sherlock rattled off, still looking thoughtfully outside.

John flinched at the thought of Sherlock dead.

"That was never a possibility. I wasn't going to let you stay there, and I wasn't going to take the chance of someone else taking you." He tightened his arms around Sherlock's chest, pulling him back against him and leaning up to kiss behind his ear. "Come on, we should get going."

Sherlock blinked slowly, then nodded. "Alright." he said quietly, swallowing as he stepped away from the window and out of John's arms, his own arms wrapping around himself slowly.

"R-ready when you are, I suppose," Sherlock said with a small shrug.

"You don't need to be nervous," John murmured, cupping Sherlock's face gently with his hands, brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones. "I've got a knife in my pocket if anyone tries to hurt you, and I promise I won't even let it get that far."

Sherlock looked at him, then down. "I'm not nervous," he lied quietly, shaking his head. "’m fine," he mumbled, glancing up at John for another moment before turning down the hall, walking slowly still.

John sighed quietly, following after Sherlock. He grabbed his wallet and keys from where he had dropped them yesterday and then held the door open for Sherlock, following him down the stairs.

John reached out for Sherlock’s hand in the hallway, squeezing it reassuringly as he then led Sherlock onto the pavement, raising his hand to flag down a cab.

Sherlock took the stairs slowly, gripping the side rail firmly. He swallowed when they were by the door, hesitating before stepping out, blinking in the direct sunlight.

Sherlock let John lead him down the street a little as John hailed a cab, Sherlock's eyes going over everything and everyone, people passing in the street looking at him with peculiar expressions. He realised of course it was probably because he was pale, thin, bruised, and wearing slippers. He slid into the cab when it pulled up, settling onto the seat, and leaning to look out the window.

John didn't say anything except to direct the cabbie to New Scotland Yard as he slid into the cab. He reached over, settling his hand on Sherlock's knee, just holding it there as they started down the road. He squeezed reassuringly, looking out of the windscreen for a moment before letting him go and turning to look out his own window, folding his hands on his lap.

Sherlock looked down at his knee when he felt John's hand on it, glancing over at John as he pulled his hand away, not looking at him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back out the window.

Sherlock swallowed, still nervous about this all, but kept his expression as flat as he could.

"Um... Mycroft he… he was working up in the government at the time. Knowing him, he's only got higher by now so um..." Sherlock paused, letting out a breath. "I'll ask him to find them, your family," he said, swallowing. "And he will; least he can do for not finding me," he mumbled, looking down.

John glanced over at Sherlock, watching his profile, the way the sun reflected off his hair and cast his already pronounced cheekbones into sharper definition.

"Thank you," John whispered, his throat constricting at the thought of his family. He was afraid of what Mycroft would find, afraid he would find them dead or worse. And what would happen if they were found? What would he do? His flat wasn't big enough for any more people, and though he had money, he wasn't rich.

Sighing, John forced himself to stop thinking. "I appreciate it, thanks." What would come, would come; he just hoped for the better.

Sherlock nodded once, looking down again at his hands and the bandaging around his wrists. He placed his hand over the bandaging on his abdomen, letting out a breath.

Eventually they pulled up to NSY, and Sherlock got out slowly, looking around hesitantly at the crowded pavement, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach. He waited for John, fighting back the urge to reach out for some part of him, before walking into the building.

Sherlock glanced back at John. "I'm not sure where we're going," he said.

"Here, come on," John said and held out his hand for Sherlock to take if he wanted. "I'm sure we can figure it out." His eyes flickered down to Sherlock's hand on his side, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you in pain?" he asked, fighting back the urge to check on the incision right then and there. "I should have brought along some pain medications, I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "N-no, I'm fine," he said, lowering his hand and swallowing.

Sherlock looked around, seeing a row of glass-walled offices inside, blinking a few times when he saw a familiar outline in one of them. His stomach tightened more as he turned.

"This way," Sherlock said, slowly moving up the one flight of stairs. He turned down the hall, heading to the office he'd seen. The name on it said _DI Lestrade_ , and he didn't even bother knocking, opening up the door and lifting his gaze.

Sherlock looked at his brother – not dead – but couldn't find any words that would come out. He blinked once, taking a small step back only to bump into John. He froze, swallowing, and feeling horrifically small. 

John stayed still when Sherlock ran into him, raising his hand to gently hold it against Sherlock's hip.

"You're alright," John breathed, quiet enough that only the Omega could hear him, pressing his lips to the back of Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not alone, alright?"

Mycroft looked at his brother, who wouldn't meet his gaze, though he probably met few peoples’ gaze – he knew none of the other Omegas they'd retrieved from the auction house did – and that was probably due to Sherlock's own personality beforehand.

It might have saved his mind.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, surprisingly soft for his normal tone, causing Greg to look at him – even he never heard  _that_  tone.

Mycroft waited a moment for a reaction, then looked to John. "Pleasure to see you, Dr Watson," he said, gesturing for them to enter.

John stepped around Sherlock, trailing his fingers over Sherlock's hip as he entered the room. He shot a warning glare at Mycroft, just in case he hadn't got the message yesterday how protective John was of the younger Holmes brother, and stood behind one of the two chairs their side of the DI's desk.

Sherlock let out a breath, stepping cautiously into the room, sinking down into one of the chairs, already tired from standing.

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft again – he was fatter, and with slightly thinning hair now. He looked older, much older. "Mycroft," he said in quiet greeting.

Sherlock looked over at the DI, narrowing his eyes a little, and then looked at Mycroft again. "Don't tell me  _you_ took a bondmate. You? I thought you'd never do that, said it would take time from your position that you were working so hard for, and yet you seem to have found one easily enough," he said, looking at the DI again, who reddened a little. 

Mycroft nodded once. "Yes, well, things change," he said simply. "Perceptive as ever, brother," he murmured.

John stood slightly to the side of Sherlock, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully between Lestrade and Mycroft. How had Sherlock known, when he himself had met both of them and not made the connection?

Sherlock was silent again, his hand moving to his side absentmindedly.

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock when he caught his hand moving to his side again, and his chest constricted for him, wishing he could make it better.

"I'm assuming you got all of them?" John asked, directing his question at Lestrade, still unsure of where he stood with Mycroft.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, stormed the place, got everyone out. They're not talking, though, much, maybe hoping they'll all get lesser sentences, but the conditions of that place, twenty Omega's to one room, and –"

Sherlock stiffened a little, and Lestrade cut himself off.

"Anyway,” the DI continued, “we have a few people lined up; we'd appreciate it if you could tell us something about them, Sherlock, if you're able," he said.

Sherlock didn't move, his jaw a little tight.

John held up his hand at the Inspector, asking him wordlessly with his eyes to wait.

"Sherlock," John murmured, his voice gentle. He crouched down to his level, reaching out to stroke his fingers through his hair. "You don't have to. No one's going to force you to do anything." He trailed his hand down Sherlock's neck, resting his fingers at his nape. "You're safe here."

Sherlock's breath was a little faster than normal, and he looked right through John. He blinked after a moment, looking up at John and then Mycroft. "I-I will," he said quietly. 

Lestrade nodded, standing and gesturing out the door for them to follow.

Sherlock stood slowly, swaying a small bit and reaching out for John's arm as they followed the DI out.

Mycroft watched them closely, but stayed silent as they walked down the hall.

Lestrade opened a door down the hall and ushered them in.

John steadied Sherlock as they made their way down the hall, following the DI closely as he led them into a room.

Sherlock looked up at a window and froze, seeing a row of people on the other side. Some familiar, some not, but the ones that were...

When Sherlock froze inside of the room, John squeezed his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles.

"They can't see you," John assured him, though he was sure the Omega already knew that. "You're okay, I promise."

John glared at the people on the other side of the glass, wishing he could rip all of them apart.

Sherlock's jaw was tense as he looked through the glass, the few handlers and Alphas behind the one-way mirror seeming to be looking at him, though he knew he wasn't visible.

Mycroft shifted, eyes narrowing when he saw the reaction in his brother.

Sherlock shoved down any reaction, though he couldn't relax entirely. "Numbers three, four, and seven are not involved, you put them there to make sure I wasn't pointing fingers needlessly," he said. "One, Five, and Six were the main handlers, others came and went, but they were in charge of us mostly. Number Two..."

Sherlock swallowed, voice wavering. "H-he's in charge, runs the ring, perhaps for another unseen person, but he's one that doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, and it's probably only him," he said, falling silent again.

John could tell by Sherlock's reaction that he had been at the mercy of the second man on more than one occasion, and his instant Alpha instincts kicked in. He unconsciously took a step forward, angling his body so that he was between Sherlock and the window without blocking it, his hand firmly holding Sherlock's.

John blinked, only a little surprised to find himself standing there.

"Is he done, then? Can we go back home?" John asked Lestrade, still determined to ignore Mycroft, hoping that he wouldn't bring up the conversation they'd had at the hospital. He wasn't sure that Sherlock was ready to make that decision right now.

Sherlock kept looking at the Alpha behind the glass as the others were led out.

The Alpha glared back as if he could see Sherlock. "I know it was you, pup; you never could shut that pretty little mouth of yours," he growled, making Sherlock jump a little. "Don't worry, someone will talk to you soon enough."

Sherlock took a sharp step back, then another until he was back against the wall. 

"That's enough; we'll deal with them," Lestrade said, casting a look at Mycroft before leaving.

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock. "Brother?" he asked softly.

Sherlock slid to the floor, weaving his fingers into his hair.

John had been snarling at the Alpha through the window until he felt Sherlock pull away from him. He turned around in time to see the Omega slide to the floor, Mycroft looking at him with worry and about to step forward, but John beat him to it.

"Don't, Mycroft," John said, pausing as he passed the older Alpha. "I'm not pushing you away from your brother, I'm not. Okay? But right now, he needs something solid. You haven't been there for the last three years of his life. He's only known me for three days, but I've been there all three days. I'm solid. Let me deal with this, please."

John didn't wait for an answer – Mycroft could be pissed if he wanted to. He sunk down beside Sherlock, gently taking his fingers from his hair and combing his own fingers through it instead – caring instead of destructive.

"It's okay," John murmured, pressing his lips against Sherlock's forehead. "You're okay." He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Sherlock's body was tense, his hands trying to move back up into his hair. He heard John's words, but they almost didn't reach him as he hid away in his mind, the Alpha's voice was still echoing in his head.

Mycroft's jaw tightened a little. "I understand," he said quietly. He looked at his brother and let out a breath. "I'll have a car waiting for you both outside for when you're ready. I need to tend to business with them. I'd like to see you again Sherlock. Perhaps I can visit later," he said quietly before leaving without an answer.

Sherlock stayed quiet, not moving for a few minutes. 

John didn't look up as Mycroft left, holding Sherlock's hands and gently kissing them. He continued to gently card through his hair, massaging his scalp gently. He turned so that he was at a ninety degree angle to the wall, positioning himself so that Sherlock was almost in his lap, his head on his shoulder.

"Sherlock," John whispered, kissing the crown of his head. "Can you hear me?" He had a feeling that the Omega had retreated mentally from the situation, and he wanted to draw him back.

"You did really well, Sherlock. Remembering them like that? And pointing out the ones that didn't belong, making Lestrade look the fool... it was fantastic. You're quite extraordinary," John murmured, his lips brushing Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock was trembling slightly, the cold voice in his head slowly being brushed aside by the softer one, warmer. John's. He hummed noncommittally, not emerging from where he was tucked away, sifting instead through dusty shelves of memories of before.

Falling off the garden wall and spraining his wrist, getting a gash on his arm as well that Mycroft tended to.

_Someone will talk to you soon enough..._

Sherlock shuddered a little, swallowing as he bit back another shiver.

"Sherlock, please. Please say something," John very nearly begged, rubbing the Omega's back. He wasn't sure what was going on, why Sherlock was so deep within his mind, but all he wanted was to help.

"Please? I miss you already and I'd like to hear your voice." John nuzzled against Sherlock's hair, kissing his forehead, then down the bridge of his nose, and lightly brushing over his lips.

Sherlock felt like he was in a tank underwater, and someone kept tapping on it. He heard the concern and quickly sifted through some of his automatic responses, avoiding the ones he normally bit out when it was  _them_.

"’m fine 'Croft... go eat some cake or something," Sherlock muttered, knowing that that one usually worked in the past, because who else showed concern enough that he'd had to create a space for in his head just yet?

"I'm not Mycroft, you nitwit." John let out a long-suffering sigh, holding Sherlock closer to him and rocking him slowly. He was half tempted to just pick him up and take him back home, but he figured becoming conscious in a different place wouldn't be good for stability.

So John just pulled the Omega fully onto his lap and turned back so that he could lean against the wall, his hand idly stroking through Sherlock's hair as the boy stayed buried away.

Sherlock stayed there in the past, each memory almost preserved perfectly, a technique he supposed he'd perfected in that place, being the only way he could escape it, really.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock finally re-emerged almost an hour later, the ache in his side worse now. He blinked his eyes a few times, having to remember where he was. He felt fingers combing through his hair and creased his forehead a little, tilting his head up slightly.

"John," Sherlock said quietly in greeting, knowing already that Mycroft was gone. Of course he was.

John smiled, relieved that Sherlock had finally come back. He pressed a firm kiss to Sherlock's forehead, closing his eyes as he held his lips there, taking a deep breath.

"Hi," John whispered, pulling back and tracing his fingers across Sherlock's cheek. "How are you? We should probably get you home so that you can take some pain medicine."

John’s problem was that he didn't want to move, perfectly content to just keep holding the Omega against him. He knew that that wasn't reality at the moment, however.

Sherlock nodded a little. "Yeah... sounds... sounds good," he said absentmindedly, still “waking up” a little.

Sherlock looked up at John. "You... stayed here when I... when I left?" he asked, confused. Normally he was just left alone, after they'd tried to badger him. Without a response, they just left.

Sure, Sherlock was battered from it, but it wasn't like he was there for it. Even when he was younger and threw fits, Mycroft and his parents just left him to it. John had stayed, though... he wasn't even sure how long he was like that, usually it was around five hours.

John's smile softened, and he brushed at some curls against Sherlock's temple.

"Of course I stayed. I'm not sure where you went, but no one should go anywhere alone unless they want to. And even then, it's sometimes a bad idea." John kissed Sherlock's forehead, gently lifting him off of his lap so that he could stand up. He held his hand out for Sherlock, pushing his other hand through his hair. "Come on, let's go home."

Sherlock blinked again, slowly pushing himself up off the ground, grabbing John's hand to help pull him up. His hand lingered there for a moment before he let go. 

_Sentiment,_  he reminded himself.

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his arm a little. "Alright," he said, feeling his bandages again under the fabric of the sweater. Home... was that what it was now? Odd concept, foreign now.

John led the way from the room, vaguely remembering which way they had come from. He wished he was holding Sherlock's hand, but he didn't want to push the Omega, and he certainly didn't blame him for not openly giving contact. Sherlock had been stuck in an auction house for three years.

John shuddered as they stepped outside, his eyes quickly falling on a black car with tinted windows. "Must be for us." He opened the door for Sherlock, sliding in behind him.

Sherlock looked up at the car and nodded once. "It's how he shows affection, sending things like cars or something," he mumbled, sliding into the car with his arms wrapped around himself lightly.

"I'll look at your side when we get back," John said, reaching out for the boy's hand, unable to hold off any longer. "Right after you take some painkillers."

Sherlock looked down when he saw his hand snagged up by John, blinking a few times but not stopping it. It was nice, if somewhat odd.

"I'm sure it's fine," Sherlock said quietly, his right hand still over the bandage. 

"Can I be the judge of that?" John asked, glancing over at Sherlock when the car started moving. "I don't want an 'I'm sure it's fine' to turn into an infection." He sighed, setting his head back against the seat. "And I told you that you were stubborn," he murmured, peeking his eye open to pin Sherlock with an amused but meaningful look before closing his eyelid again, exhaustion settling into his system.

Sherlock looked down. "Alright..." he murmured. "If only for your med school practice," he muttered, glancing over at John when he commented on him being stubborn.

Sherlock swallowed, biting on his lip a little, before scooting over closer to John, not saying a word and resting his head on his shoulder, looking straight ahead. He blinked, deciding that it felt nice enough, and, letting out a breath, he closed his eyes as well.

John hummed happily, leaning his head against Sherlock's.

"You're not like normal people," John murmured, reaching to wrap his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, playing with an uneven spot on his jumper. "I like you, though. Different is good." He was obviously tired if he was saying that, but he meant it. "I'm glad we met, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock let out a breath, opening his eyes again and looking straight ahead.

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock murmured, not offering more on the subject. “Had we met under other circumstances, namely you not saving my life by buying me and then taking me to hospital... well then I'm quite sure you would not say the same. Few do." He hesitated. "None, in fact." 

"Hadn't we already agreed that I'm not like most Alphas? Can that not apply to people as well?" John asked quietly. "But, if that is the case, then I'm glad we met the way we did, because... I don't know, Sherlock. I don't trust people, as a general rule. It takes years to earn true trust from me but you... you did it in under a week, and by doing what? Being ill?" He shook his head, turning to kiss the Omega's curls. "I trust you, and I like you, and I think you're brilliant. I don't know what else to say."

Sherlock took that in for a moment, swallowing quietly. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. He looked down.

"Th-thank you," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't think anyone's actually... liked me before," he mumbled quietly, picking at his wrist bandage again.

"Stop that," John chided softly, holding Sherlock's hands to preoccupy him. He turned to look at the boy, his lips curled in a small smile. "Everyone else is missing out, then. Because you're truly wonderful."

Sherlock glanced over at John, and then down at his hands, not even realising that he'd been picking at them again.

John ran his thumbs over Sherlock's knuckles, looking down at their hands. "I have to go back to school tomorrow. I took today off because you needed me, but I can't miss anything else. I'm ahead enough that I only need two more terms at Bart's before I can be done. I can't afford to fail my courses now."

"I've told you I don't wish to be a burden; don't feel as if you need to miss school for me, you should have gone," Sherlock said.

"And I told  _you_ that you're not a burden. I don't do anything unless I want to, trust me." John grinned at Sherlock, though all he could see was the top of his dark curls.

John looked back up at Sherlock, his gaze flickering between pale eyes. "I'm taking a shot in the dark and saying that you like science." His voice was a question, his eyebrows raised as he waited for an answer.

"Yes, I used to," Sherlock murmured. "I had just finished school actually, was aiming to start uni early, like Mycroft," he said. 

"Well, there's an Omega that works in the morgue at Bart's, a good friend of mine. She's got a lab down there that she hardly ever uses. I could call her, ask if you could use it while I'm at school?" John formed it into a question, letting Sherlock decide his course of action. "It's fine if you stay home, too, I just thought it might be nice for you to, I don't know, partake in something enjoyable." He shrugged, glancing out of the window and then back down at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked a couple times. "I don't know... perhaps," he said, not sure how he felt about being out and about somewhere alone just yet. "Still bit run down, think I'll stay at your flat for now," he murmured. "Thank you, though," he said in earnest, tilting his head up a moment to look at John.

"How old are you precisely?" Sherlock asked.

John dipped his head in acknowledgement, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "You're welcome. And I'm twenty-two." He studied Sherlock's gaze, pleased to see a spark of interest at the mention of the lab.

Sherlock hummed a little, looking up out the windscreen.

They eventually pulled up to the flat, and Sherlock slid out of the cab, walking up to the door, testing the knob and finding it unlocked. He glanced back at John and waited until he was done with the cab before looking at the steps.

First time actually going up them not unconscious.

Sherlock took the railing and slowly moved up them, getting a little winded by the time he reached the top. He moved into the living room and eased himself onto the sofa with a sigh, leaning his head back with his eyes shut.

"I'm going to go grab the kit and a painkiller, and then I'll be back," John promised, leaving the living room for the comfortingly closed quarters of the bedroom. He glanced longingly at the bed before shaking his head firmly, walking over to the other side to grab the first aid kit. He stopped at the nightstand on Sherlock's side of the bed to grab a pill from the bottle.

The thought – calling it Sherlock's side of the bed – came naturally and surprised the hell out of John. Already he was imagining Sherlock as a permanent part of his life. Sighing, he returned to the living room after filling up a glass of water, handing it and the pill to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up when he heard John approach, and he took the pill and water, swallowing both quickly and setting the empty glass on the table. He was surprised to find he had a small bit of an appetite, which was unusual for him.

Sherlock looked at John and at the kit in his hand and sat up a little more, slowly tugging off the jumper so that John could easier get to his incision. 

John's gaze flickered quickly over Sherlock's bare torso, able to appreciate his beauty even with how skinny he was.

John sat down beside the Omega on the couch, opening the kit and placing it on the coffee table before his fingers slowly peeled the bandage off of his side. He hummed quietly to himself, reaching for some peroxide and tipping a bit of the liquid onto a square of gauze, which he used to dab at the small incision.

Sherlock watched John's hands work, seeing the care taken. John took care with what he did. He smiled a little. 

After applying some antibiotic cream over the minimal stitches, John redid the bandage and lightly kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Supper now, and then bed."

"You've picked something you're good at. And like," Sherlock murmured. He nodded to John’s words, more sleep sounding nice.

"I don't see any point in doing anything else. Why do something you don't enjoy?" John stood, walking to the kitchen to make them both a fried egg sandwich.

John contemplated whether or not he should tell Sherlock that he wasn't just training to be a doctor, but specifically an army doctor. Two more terms and then six months more training and he was set to be shipped off to the desert to join an infantry team.

John swallowed thickly, wondering if he would be able to do it when the time came. Shaking himself, he poured two glasses of iced tea and then brought the food out to the living room, handing Sherlock his plate and glass. "I don't expect you to eat it all. Just as much as you can."

Sherlock took the plate, looking at the food. He glanced up at John, then picked up half of the sandwich, taking a small bite and chewing slowly.

"I suppose so. I'd get bored if I didn't like what I did," Sherlock said. He ate quietly for a little bit, making it through a quarter of the sandwich before setting it down, drinking some of the tea and letting it settle some.

"Is it sitting okay?" John asked, nodding at the sandwich on Sherlock's plate.

Sherlock looked down at the sandwich. "Well enough... it feels heavy. Taking a break," he said quietly.

"Probably best to leave the rest of it," John murmured, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't want you getting sick."

Sherlock nodded, setting the plate down.

"Do you get bored easily?" John asked between bites of the sandwich. He devoured the entire thing in less than a minute, rising from his seat to fish an apple from the fridge before returning to the couch. He sat close enough to Sherlock that their arms brushed, and he hooked his ankle underneath the Omega's.

"I did, yes," Sherlock murmured. "Though I did adjust to not having the normal amount of mental stimulation that I'd grown used to," he said. "My parents’ manor had a large library; I had access to multiple databases both public and... otherwise, and I composed."

Sherlock shrugged a little. "I suppose I occupy myself regularly enough, but, as you saw earlier, I really only do that now by going into my own head," he explained.

John glanced over at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. "Composed? As in music? What did you play?" He had played the clarinet in primary school, but he had quite forgotten how by now. Part of him wished he still remembered.

"And once you get better, you'll have access again to a library. I'm sure your brother and I together can get you clearance into most places." John leant over, kissing Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up a small bit. "Oh I didn't  _have_ access; I gave myself it," he said with a small smile.

"And yes, I did. I started playing the violin when I was five years old," Sherlock said, looking down sadly. "It... it helped me think. Deal with... with things I have trouble with," he said.  _Emotions._ He didn't say it out loud.

It had been hard since he’d been taken. He'd lost everything that made him, him. And he'd felt broken since.

John's heart pulled for the boy, and he leant back to give him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry," he murmured, brushing his knuckles across his cheek.

"Come on, let's go to bed. I'm properly knackered." John stood, holding his hand out to Sherlock, leading the way to the bedroom when he took it.

Too tired to care, John stripped down by the chest of drawers and pulled on his pyjamas, ruffling his hair before walking over to the bed and crawling in.

Sherlock lowered his eyes when John changed, looking around the room as he stood in the doorway. This was John's room; he didn't want to put him out. Though, it was a large bed, and John had left one side open.

Sherlock looked down at himself, still wearing the long sleeved t-shirt and bottoms. He hesitantly moved to the bed, sitting down carefully and then lying down, curled up on his side at the far edge, not wanting to be in the way.

John made a slightly exasperated noise in the back of his throat, reaching out to wrap his arm around Sherlock, pulling him back until they were pressed together again.

"Stop thinking so little of yourself," John murmured, nuzzling against the back of the Omega's neck, kissing the delicate skin there. "I want you here, don't forget." He pressed his palm over Sherlock's heart again, closing his eyes as he settled down for sleep.

Sherlock tensed up a little as he was pulled back gently, and he blinked a few times. He thought quietly, letting out a breath.

"And... for how long will you want me here?" Sherlock asked quietly. 

John hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Forever, probably." He nuzzled closer to Sherlock, a noise close to a purr escaping him. "Of course, that's only if you want to. I won't force you to stay if you want to leave."

John didn't like the thought of the Omega leaving, but he wouldn't blame him or hold a grudge if he did.

Sherlock swallowed, reaching one hand up and holding onto John's that was over his heart. "Okay," he said quietly, not saying that he didn't see himself wanting to leave. He let out a breath, the painkiller kicking in as he started to relax more, head going fuzzy.

John smiled to himself, pressing a few more kisses to the nape of Sherlock's neck before he finally fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John’s alarm went off at five the next morning, which was way too damn early in his opinion. Groaning, he rolled over, flipping the switch that shut it off and pushing himself immediately out of bed. He knew that if he looked back at Sherlock, all he was going to want to do was stay in bed with him, but that wouldn't do. So he padded blearily into the bathroom, starting up the shower and stepping inside once it was warm.

Sherlock jumped a little when he heard the beeping, realising that it was John's alarm. He didn't move from where he was, turning his head over to see John disappear into the bathroom.

Sherlock heard the shower turned on, and rolled onto his back, looking at the ceiling. He looked towards the bathroom door again, then rolled over, trying to fall back asleep, but all he could do was focus on the sound of the water pouring in the next room.

John took his time in the shower to clear his head. That was why he always woke up so early, to scrub away the previous day's worries and attempt to start the day fresh. His morning showers usually took thirty minutes.

Today it took thirty-five, and John decided to skip breakfast as he stepped out of the shower, towelling off and walking back into the bedroom with the towel around his waist. He didn't notice Sherlock awake, only that he'd rolled over, and quickly hunted for clothes, slipping them on as quietly as possible before making his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock glanced at John as he pulled out clothes, rolling onto his side as he heard John move into the kitchen.

Sherlock let out a breath, getting up out of bed and shuffling down the hall. His unruly hair stuck out every which way as he stepped inside the kitchen, blinking a few times.

"Um, just getting water for a pill," Sherlock said. It had been more than four hours. He grabbed a glass, and moved to the sink to fill it. "Oh and um... morning," he murmured. He supposed that was something people did in the morning – greet each other.

"Morning." John watched Sherlock over the lid of his mug of coffee, noticing his wince when he walked. "You can call the hospital if you need me," he said, taking a sip of the strong liquid. "Anything mundane, Mrs Hudson is downstairs, and she'd be happy to help. Food and things; she's a good cook."

John set his mug down, walking over to Sherlock, impulsively fixing his bed hair. He smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I'll be home around four. Try not to pick at your wrists."

John couldn't resist one last kiss before he walked out, grabbing his coat on his way.

Sherlock nodded quietly, holding his glass of water as John left. He looked around the flat, which was completely quiet now.

Sherlock sighed, moving into the bedroom to take his pill and then returned to the living room. He saw a television, though had no desire to watch anything, not that he ever really had before. Seeing a radio, he turned it on, finding a classical station. He shut his eyes as a familiar piece came on.

Sherlock moved over to the sofa, sinking down onto it and stretching out, steepling his hands under his chin as he shut his eyes, listening to the music. It had been so long since he'd heard any, and a smile pulled at his lips as he retreated into himself, thinking and resting. 

He listened to the station all day, not once feeling hungry, and certainly not noticing as the day passed.

***

As soon as John showed up at the hospital, he was pushed towards the operation observatory room, his instructor standing behind him as John assessed the scene and quickly scribbled down what he would have done if he were the surgeon.

And his day didn't slow from there.

John was pushed around, shuffled from one doctor to another, learning things that textbooks just couldn’t teach. He didn't pause for lunch because he had to fit a test in somewhere, and by the time three twenty rolled around, he was beat.

\----------------------------------------------------------

John pushed his way into the flat, dumping a new textbook on the floor by his chair and collapsing into it, dropping his head in his hands and scrubbing at his eyes. He let out a long groan, finally looking up to see Sherlock sprawled out on the couch. "Sherlock? You awake?"

Sherlock was in the same position as when he had first laid down, the music still playing on the radio. He blinked his eyes open when he heard John's voice, roused easier from his mind this time, not hiding there, but rather organising. He turned his head, looking at John.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I thought you said you weren't going to be back until four?" he asked.

John arched his eyebrow at the Omega, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"It is four. What have you been doing all day?" John asked, glancing around the flat for something, though he wasn't quite sure what. 

 _Tea. I need tea._  

Sighing at the thought of moving any more, John pushed himself to his feet and moved to the kitchen, starting the kettle and pulling a teabag out of the box of Earl Grey that was kept in the cabinet.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. "Oh, it is," he said, turning his gaze up to the ceiling. "Thinking," he replied to John’s question. "Listening," he added as another of his favourites played. He smiled, fingers on his left hand bending and flexing along with each note. "It's been wonderful," he said. "I haven't heard music in such a long time."

John hummed to himself, pouring the boiling water over the teabag and walking back into the living room. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. I really am." He smiled, though he knew his weariness was written all over his face.

John took a sip of the tea, glancing down at it in distaste. "I'm going to shower," he announced, stepping out of the living room and into the bathroom.

Sherlock looked over at John, nodding.

Sherlock sat up, wincing a little, and got up to take another pill, hearing the shower as he passed. When he'd taken it, he looked at the kitchen. Looking at John before, Sherlock could tell he hadn't had lunch, and he knew he didn't have breakfast.

Sherlock bit his lip; he wasn't good at this kind of thing. While John was in the shower, Sherlock made a sandwich of cold cuts and set it by John's chair. He even nibbled on some bread and meat himself, drinking some milk as well so the medicine wouldn't upset his stomach, before he returned to the sofa.

By the time John had changed into track pants and an old loose jumper, he was at least a little more alert. He wandered back into the living room, curling up in his chair and about to reach for his new textbook to read when he caught sight of the sandwich.

John smiled, glancing up at the young Omega taking up residence on his sofa. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said, picking up the plate and starting to devour the sandwich.

Sherlock nodded once, having assumed his thought position once more. "You're welcome," he murmured, turning his head a little and looking at John.

"So what was the surgery today, then?" Sherlock asked, looking at John knowingly. 

"Appendectomy," John replied without hesitation. "Tricky bastard, this one. Started bleeding out halfway through. Surgeon got it under control though," he explained, finishing his last bites of food. "How did you know?"

Sherlock sat up, looking at John. "You didn't eat lunch, your exhaustion level says as much, plus the ink smudges along your left hand say you were writing a lot and quickly, pressing too hard and at an angle to drag your hand so much and to have that much ink, so you weren't watching what you were writing, so you were observing something that took a lot of attention. A surgery," Sherlock explained with a shrug.

John had to force his mouth closed from where it had fallen open. "You know, I knew you were smart from some of the comments you've made, but... smudges? You got all of that from smudges on my hand?" He shook his head in baffled amazement, a grin spreading across his lips. "That's amazing. Truly, truly amazing, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged a little. "Just an observation, nothing more," he murmured, though a small smile tugged at his face.

"You'll be pleased to know that my bandages are perfectly in order," Sherlock murmured, lifting his wrists to show. He looked over at John, still sitting where he was. He bit his lip, letting out a breath.

"And seeing as you are so tired, and no doubt wound up from your long day, then I propose you do the, ah... touching thing... again," Sherlock said stiffly, rubbing his neck a little. "Obviously because, erm, you like it...that is," he said. 

John set his empty plate on the table beside his chair, pushing to his feet and walking over to the couch, sinking down beside Sherlock. He reached up, carding his fingers through his still slightly mussed hair until it slid through his fingers like silk.

"You mean this touching thing?" John mused, nuzzling against the Omega's neck and just breathing him in for a moment, one hand still carding through his hair, the other stroking down his arm.

Sherlock sighed a little, his eyes closing a small bit. "Y-yes... that would be the one. O-only if you want, if you feel it'll help in some way," he said. "I'm not so familiar with it but it's... intriguing," he said, humming a little before he realised he was.

John chuckled softly, nuzzling his way up to Sherlock's hairline and then kissing his way back down.

"Relax," John murmured, flicking his tongue against the underside of his jaw. "I'm not going to do anything."

Sherlock found it surprisingly easy to do just that, his eyes blinking open at the tip of John's tongue touching his jaw. He sighed, finding his reaction to the attention curious.

John continued combing his hands through Sherlock's hair and kissing his neck and collarbone until he felt that the Omega had had enough. He then sat back on the couch, tugging Sherlock's hand in an invitation for him to scoot closer.

When John pulled away, Sherlock blinked, shifting over closer to John and snuggling up against him before even realising. "It's strange, normally I detest Alphas, or anyone really, touching me." 

"I'm glad I'm different," John murmured, holding Sherlock closely against him. He nuzzled into Sherlock hair, closing his eyes and starting to drift off before a thought from prior in the day hit him. "Oh, I was going to ask. Do you know when your next heat cycle is? Because there are some things we need to discuss about that."

Sherlock's eyes pulled open again and he looked across the room, listening to the music that was still playing. He let out a breath, swallowing.

"N-no," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't. I... I didn't even know what month it was, John. There wasn't any keeping track of time in that place so I… I don't know when it is," he said quietly. He'd almost forgotten, for once. It was like he'd forgotten what he was.

John rubbed Sherlock's back reassuringly, holding him closer and nuzzling against him. "That's alright. We'll just deal with it when it comes, alright?" He chewed on his lip, not knowing how to frame the next question except bluntly. "Do you want pups at your age? Because if not, I can get a birth control prescription for you."

Christ, John knew he wasn't ready for pups, and he was nearly four years older than Sherlock. Neither of them seemed to be parent material, at the moment, at least.

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "I hardly remember or care about feeding myself; I would just kill a child sooner as help it," he said, looking down at his wrists.

Sherlock knew part of him ached a little to have them, but he knew that was just biological, he knew he was at a prime age to have them. The abuse he'd suffered, though... it led him to wonder if he even _could_ have them someday, if he ever wanted them.

"Besides, I'd have thought the way most did it was to take a bondmate first, and I don't really see such a thing happening to me so..." Sherlock swallowed, trying not to think about his oncoming heat. "As for when... _it_  happens... you said there was a spare room," he said, hating that he was suggesting it. "I can lock up in there," he said quietly, hating that he'd even have to have it, and worse, spend it alone.

During his first one, he hadn't known what was happening – reading about them couldn't prepare one, and he'd hoped because it was late that he'd just be a Beta. For that one, his first one, his mother had stayed with him, holding him and wiping his face down. He hadn't even had his second one before he'd been taken.

John stroked Sherlock's hair back from his forehead, kissing his skin gently. "I don't want you to suffer," he murmured, his lips skimming the Omega's forehead, "but I'm not going to force onto you something you don't want. If you want to spend your heat alone, that's fine, but I'll help you through it if you change your mind."

John idly rubbed Sherlock's back, trying to ease the boy's mind and his own.

Sherlock was quiet a moment, letting out a breath. "I... you don't understand what it's like," he said quietly. "No one wants to be alone for it, and I... I always was. They locked us in a room the whole time alone, shouting at us through the door. It's horrible, un-dignifying, and even painful almost. My first one was... a little better, my mother stayed with me. One of the only times she really was around for me," he said, looking down.

"I don't want to be alone if I have to have it but at the same time, though, it's mostly what I'll want at the time. I don't want..." Sherlock trailed off. "There's not many Alpha's that could help themselves around that," he said quietly.

John thought to himself for a moment, closing his eyes as he worked to find a solution. "Well, I could take suppressants while you're going through it," he suggested, petting Sherlock's hair gently. "I don't want you to have to go through that alone. No one should have to."

Sherlock hardly noticed that he was leaning into John's hand a little, his eyes already pulling shut. He licked his lips a little before blinking his eyes open.

Sherlock pulled away a little, so he could look at John all the way. "You... you'd take those?"  _for me?..._ He didn't add those last bits, but looked at John, seeing no lie. He swallowed, before he leant back against John, letting out a breath and wrapping one arm around him a little. "Th-thank you," he said quietly.

"Of course," John told him, massaging his scalp with gentle touches. "I'll pick some up tomorrow so that they're here in the flat. Just help me keep an eye out for the signs so that I know when to start taking them." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple.

"I'm going to go lie down for an hour or so. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. But you can stay out here, too. Whichever you like." John pushed off from the couch, carding his fingers again through Sherlock's hair before walking into the bedroom.

Sherlock hummed, blinking his eyes open when John got up. He let out a breath, then after a moment stood up, following John.

Sherlock climbed onto the bed, and would have scooted right up next to John, but his injured side wouldn't allow it so he had to curl up away from John on his right side.

"Here, switch sides with me for a minute," John suggested, letting Sherlock move back before he lowered himself onto Sherlock's side of the bed, facing him this time. "I want to hold you this way," he murmured, settling his hand on the Omega's hip and then sliding it over his back, nuzzling against his neck and then his hair as he scooted closer until they were nearly pressed together.

Sherlock watched John scoot closer, holding him closer. He blinked a couple times, then rested his forehead against John's a little, taking a breath.

"Mm... 'nd surprisingly I don't mind you holding me this way," Sherlock mumbled. He actually found that he was a bit tired, as he'd been thinking all day rather than sleeping.

Sherlock sighed a little. "What time to do you have to go tomorrow?" he asked. 

John's smile broadened when Sherlock rested their foreheads together. He stroked his fingers along Sherlock's spine, humming quietly.

“I'm glad you like it, because so do I." John ran the tip of his nose up the bridge of Sherlock's, pressing a kiss to his forehead and then across the line of his jaw.

"I have to be in at the same time tomorrow," John whispered, "and every day after that. Otherwise I don't get to be with all of the doctors."

Sherlock nodded once. "And weekends, is that a thing?" he asked, wondering just what was going to happen when Sherlock had his heat.

It would last a minimum of two days, and Sherlock wasn't sure what would make him feel worse: being completely alone, or knowing that John's presence there meant he was missing his education to do what he loved. He wasn't used to feeling this conflicted about how another person felt; normally he didn't care.

"I do get weekends off at least, yeah," John nodded, settling down and stroking his fingers along Sherlock's cheek. He couldn't seem to stop touching him, which was unusual.

John wasn't opposed to physical contact, but he usually wasn't one to give it so openly. Contact meant something, something personal, and he wondered what it meant that he hadn't been able to keep his hands off of Sherlock since the first night.

Sherlock hummed, not even sure what day of the week it was. He let out a breath, staying still and relaxed in John's arms.

"What does this mean?" Sherlock asked quietly. "What is this? Us. What are we?" he asked.

John hummed quietly. "I'm not sure," he murmured, tracing Sherlock's spine, memorising every knot and dip between his vertebrae. "Does it have to have a label right now?" He wasn't sure how to define them except as flatmates, Alpha and Omega, and he didn't like those choices.

Sherlock shivered a little as John's fingers moved down his back, humming a small bit. "S'pose not," he murmured quietly. He sighed, his eyes shutting again.

"I suppose I ought to thank you," Sherlock said quietly, glancing at John and seeing the question form in his eyes. "For not labelling me... and for calling me by my name," he said, looking down again.

"You don't need to thank me for that. But you're welcome," John supplied, nuzzling closer to Sherlock.

"Now rest, Sherlock. We both need it. When we get up we can eat and then... I don't know. I have a book I need to read by Friday." John sighed, already feeling weary at the thought.

Sherlock let out a breath, nodding once and staying quiet. John needed to sleep, possibly more than he did.

Sherlock wondered what it was John had to read. No doubt he was already familiar with anatomy, his observations of surgeries evidence of that. He took a deep breath, taking in John's scent, which was... interestingly perfect, and smiled a little, shutting his eyes.

\----------------------------------------------------------

John woke up to his alarm at five thirty, groaning and nuzzling into Sherlock in an effort of ignoring it. Eventually he caved, unable to block out the blaring beep, and rolled over to shut it off.

Rubbing his eyes, John sat up, looking over at Sherlock, whose eyes were open. "What would you like for supper?" he asked quietly, not knowing what the Omega liked or disliked, and curious to find out.

Sherlock hadn’t fallen asleep, simply lying there and listening to John breathe, and dream, hearing him mumble quietly. He knew when the alarm went off that John would get up. Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at him.

"I've no preference really," Sherlock said with a small shrug. "Had some bread earlier," he murmured.

John laughed quietly to himself. "Bread isn't very nutritious. I'll make some tomato soup and crackers, how 'bout?" he offered, standing up with a stretch and a stifled yawn before padding from the room. "Come on, you can listen to music or something while I read. I like your company."

Once in the kitchen, John pulled out two cans of tomato soup, heating them in a pan on the stove. He made toast with it, and crumbled up his crackers inside the soup once it was in his bowl.

Sherlock sat up slowly, taking another pill from the bottle and swallowing it dry. He left the room, moving into the living room, and turned on the radio again quietly, sighing a little. His fingers moved a bit again along with the notes as he sat in the leather armchair across from the one John normally sat in.

"What is it you're studying?" Sherlock asked, watching John in the kitchen.

John swallowed, pausing for a moment in his fixings before grabbing two spoons and bringing the food out to the living room. He handed Sherlock his plate and sat down in his own chair, tucking his feet underneath himself.

Sherlock nodded a little, taking the plate and lifting the bowl off of it, holding it in his hands, which were usually always cold.

"It's a five year study on active doctors in the military," John replied at length, glancing up at Sherlock and then back down at his food, taking a bite of toast.

Sherlock didn't so much as blink when John explained what he was reading, though his mind was already racing to analyse it.

The Alpha was nearly done with his schooling, already early and ahead with it – he would be in demand. Two terms left, not long at all. His slight hesitation at Sherlock's question meant not wanting to tell Sherlock; he was planning on leaving, which really begged the question as to why he still took Sherlock on, and mentioned even once any thought that it would be permanent.

Sherlock took a sip of the soup, his face expressionless. "I see," he said plainly, not showing the thoughts going through his mind.

John set his food aside, not really hungry after just having eaten a couple hours ago.

"I'm going down to the courthouse tomorrow to null out the ownership papers I had to fill out when I bought you at the auction. You're not going to be owned anymore, by anyone but yourself."  _Unless you really want to_ , was left hanging in the air, the statement that John found himself saying quite often around Sherlock. He didn't want to force him to do anything. "I'm hoping that you'll stay here until you're better, and, I'll admit, past that. I'd like you to still be here when I... when I get back."

Sherlock looked down at his soup as if studying it intently. He didn't know why the idea of John leaving was so.... unappealing. And that was before Sherlock started calculating the statistical likelihood that John was shot... and killed.

Sherlock swallowed, setting aside the bowl and taking up the plate with toast, tearing it into small pieces. "When is it that you are leaving?" he asked steadily. 

"Well," John blew out a breath, folding his hands under his chin. "I've got two terms left, but at the rate I'm working those are going to be finished ahead of time. I've already done basic training, so they're just going to reaffirm that I can handle a gun, teach me how to work in an infantry team, and then I'll get shipped out. I'm thinking it's going to be anywhere between eight months and a year." He glanced up at Sherlock, watching curiously as he tore apart his toast.

Sherlock nodded once. John would finish early, he was bright with what he could do, attentive, spending even his breaks and meals while at the hospital for study. Sherlock took this into account, and came up with five to six months in actuality, though he said no such thing. He would be told soon enough.

Sherlock let out a breath, eating some of the toast and taking up the bowl again, if only for the warmth to his hands. "Well I'm sure you'll be an asset to the infantry," he said methodically. "Steady hands such as yours are in short supply; they'd be lucky to have you for the length of your deployment." Which would be at least two years, assuming he didn't sign on for more. Or die.

Sherlock took a couple large gulps of his soup and then carried his dishes into the kitchen, putting them in the sink. He walked back and clicked off the radio. "So you can think," he murmured. "I didn't sleep earlier and my pill is making me tired," he half lied. He didn't sleep earlier, but he sure was not tired. "I'm going to lie down," he said, moving down the hall and into the room. He curled up on the bed.

John looked after Sherlock, staring blankly down the hall until he finally sighed, deciding that Sherlock was either lying and needed space, or he actually was tired and for some reason hadn't slept while John had.

John stood up, taking his dishes into the kitchen and dumping the food he hadn't eaten into the garbage bin before returning to the living room to pick up the thick, journal-like text book. He found the words interesting, attention-grabbing, even, but his mind would so often wander to Sherlock that he found himself re-reading entire paragraphs because he couldn't remember what they had been about.

Sighing heavily, John dog-eared his page and crossed into the bedroom, sitting down on his side of the bed with his shoulders leaning back against the headboard. Setting the book in his lap, he continued reading, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair where he lay beside him.

Sherlock had closed his eyes as soon as he heard John coming down the hall. He felt John sit on the bed behind him and heard a book open before fingers started to weave through his hair. He sighed a little, letting out a breath but not moving. That wasn't fair, but he supposed if it helped John think.

Sherlock stayed quiet, knowing John was busy, and really he was quite used to sitting about with just his thoughts, never being as comfortable as he was now, so he was content.

"I give up," John murmured, almost forty minutes later. He tossed the book onto the floor, lying down behind Sherlock and nuzzling up against him. "I know you're not asleep, you know. I'm not completely incompetent. Your pulse was pretty evident in your neck," he whispered, kissing the particular spot on the Omega's neck. "I'm sorry for distracting you from sleep." He ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock's chest, tracing his fingertips between Sherlock's ribs and humming gently.

Sherlock let out another breath; of course John knew, doctor in training after all. "Not distracting, I wasn't trying," he mumbled, still not moving. He'd been picking at the bandages on his wrists though for the last ten minutes, most of them gone now. He sighed.

"I can't help but wonder why you even brought up the question of me wanting pups at my age," Sherlock said. "Curious that you would ask. Almost suggesting that were I to say yes to such an enquiry that you would give them to me, which is a strange offer to make when one's leaving regardless. Also is the suggestion of any kind of permanence in my situation here, for the same reason," he rattled off quickly, staring at the opposite wall.

John sighed, resting his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck and closing his eyes. "I guess... you've been through so much hell in the last three years, and you've never had an Alpha during a heat..." He sighed again, unsure if he was saying it right. It sounded good in his head, but that didn't mean it was.

"If you wanted pups, if they would have made you happy, then I wouldn't have been able to deny you them, but if you didn't want pups, I wanted to know so that I could take steps to prevent that from happening." John nuzzled against Sherlock's skin, an impulsive gesture by now. "And I want you to stay because I like you, and I would miss you if you were gone, but, of course, I won't force you to stay."

Sherlock felt something twist in his chest a little, and he let out a breath. "Considering many Omegas can hardly go through life without being deemed property, not many would be tolerated as single parents. And, as I recall, I am not the one planning on leaving. Which of course you're within your rights to do," he said pragmatically.

After all, no promises had been made. John had already saved Sherlock's life; he didn't owe any more than that. And yet, John leaving still stung. "At this juncture, though, I do not want pups, no," he confirmed.

John winced at the truth in the words. "You're right, you're not the one planning on leaving. But even if I wanted to, I couldn't back out now. I already enlisted, I can't just... pull my name out and say, 'sorry, I can't go, thanks for paying for my post-secondary education though,' it doesn't work like that. And even if it did, I don't have the money to pay for med school, Sherlock. I have to go and at least serve for two years."

John closed his eyes tighter, pressing his hand against Sherlock's chest. "I am sorry for leaving, though. I want to stay here with you."

Sherlock blinked once. "You've promised me nothing. I'm not... I haven't asked you not to leave," he said. He let out a huff of air.

"My parents had a trust to be shared between my brother and me. I will be perfectly able to provide for myself," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's not what I'm worried about. I just don't want to leave you." John leant up on his elbow, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and looking down at him. "We've still got a while, though. I don't want to worry about it now."

"Wasn't worried," Sherlock said quietly, looking to the right at his pillow when John loomed over him a bit. He let out a breath. 

 _Less time than you think_ ,he thought quietly to himself.

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes a little. If this was his only chance to even be near someone then... he supposed he should take it.

Sherlock rolled over carefully onto his back, and then gently onto his left side. The bruising felt a little better and his incision was slightly more centre, so he wasn't lying on it, either. He looked at John, then down again.

"A while, yes," Sherlock said quietly, doing the torturous thing and leaning into John's hand more, allowing himself to enjoy it, and he couldn't help the small smile tugging at his mouth, knowing it wouldn't last. But he would enjoy it while it did.

John leant down, putting himself more on Sherlock's level. He stroked his hair more fully, completely enjoying the thickness of his curls. He pressed his lips to the Omega's forehead, over each of his eyelids, down his cheek, and across his jaw. He paused at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, wanting badly to kiss him properly but feeling like Sherlock was fragile and not wanting to break him. He left his lips there, hovering, his fingers still kneading along the back of Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock's breath was even, cataloguing each touch in his mind palace, in a room he'd made during the day for John, not having devoted one to a person yet, if he didn’t count the entire room he had for his family. Still, that was three people to a room and yet... John had his own.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open when John paused, wondering why it was he stopped. It took Sherlock a second to make a decision, though really he hadn't made it. Despite that, he turned his head a fraction and pressed his lips gently to John's. He'd never done this before, but it felt... nice, interesting, and warm.

Sherlock pulled back a moment later, his nose just barely brushing against John's as he kept his eyes down, ears a little warm.

John smiled, cupping Sherlock's cheek and kissing him again, more firmly this time. He stroked his thumb gently over his cheekbone, tilting his head to slant his lips slightly. He pulled back just to continue kissing along Sherlock’s jaw.

"You alright? That wasn't... too much too fast, was it?" John asked, worried about pushing himself onto the Omega.

Sherlock didn't exactly find the second kiss a complete surprise, though the intensity of it was. He blinked a couple times, looking at John. "I-I don't know," he said truthfully. He sighed, swallowing thickly.

"You need to finish your reading," Sherlock reminded John.

John rested his head on the pillow, watching Sherlock for a moment before he closed his eyes. "I read enough. I can read tomorrow, too," he sighed, taking his hand from Sherlock's hair and wrapping it around his fingers instead. "It's Wednesday night, test on the material on Friday. I have plenty of time." His voice was murmured, and he wasn't honestly sure he believed his words, but he sure as hell knew he wasn't going to be able to focus tomorrow if he didn't get to sleep.

"Rest if you can; you're still healing and your body could do with the sleep." John squeezed Sherlock's hand, pulling it close to his own chest and holding it there.

Sherlock hummed, nodding once. "Alright, good night, John," he murmured quietly. He shut his eyes and retreated to his mind. Eventually, though, he did fall asleep, snuggling closer to John unconsciously.


	6. Chapter 6

John's alarm pulled him awake again the next morning, dragging him out of a pleasant dream and the comfort that Sherlock's presence brought.

John sighed, easing off of the bed and trooping into the bathroom for a ritual shower, his mind still on the previous night and the kiss – kisses – he and Sherlock had shared. It was going to be a long day away from the Omega, and John was sure he wasn't going to be able to focus.

Sherlock blinked his eyes awake when John's alarm went off. He let out a breath, getting up to get some water and take another pain pill, though he didn't hurt as much today.

Sherlock propped himself up in bed after grabbing John's textbook up off the floor, opening it and scanning the pages.

John trudged back into the bedroom, still drowsy and not completely dried off, and walked over to the chest of drawers, pulling out a pair of khakis and a green jumper with a black shirt to put underneath it.

"Morning," John said to Sherlock, who, he hadn't failed to notice, was reading his textbook.

Sherlock mumbled a quiet good morning to John, still going over John's text.

John pulled on his pants before undoing the towel and hiking up the khakis, doing up the button and zip as he turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Anything interesting in there? To be entirely honest, I don't remember most of it." He tugged the black shirt on, got annoyed when the collar stuck to his still-wet neck, and then ignored it, focusing on buttoning the shirt.

"Hardly so, actually," Sherlock said, setting the book down, highlighter in his hand. "Poorly written, much of it being redundant fillers, and a small amount of inaccuracies.” He set it down still open, the pages marked up. "I’m taking the liberty of highlighting the important stuff that's more likely to be on any exam, and that is overall more important. The authors used a particular pattern and changed their word usage slightly when they came upon important topics," he explained, setting down the highlighter he'd found in the side drawer.

"And you can't remember it because you weren't focusing on your reading," Sherlock said, looking down, knowing he was the cause for John's distraction.

John smirked at Sherlock, pulling the jumper over his wet hair and walking over to the bed. He tilted Sherlock's chin up, meeting his eyes with a soft smile.

"No, I was focusing on something much more important." John leant down to kiss Sherlock's forehead, carding his fingers through his bedhead curls. "And thank you," he murmured, gesturing at the book. "I appreciate it greatly."

Sherlock smiled a small bit, looking back at the book. "It's no trouble," he murmured, not even bothering to correct John on saying he was more important than his education and future. Sherlock already knew that he wouldn't be in it soon enough.

"If you don't have to take it with you then I'd wager I can finish before you get back," Sherlock said. "Nice to have  _something_  to do for a change," he said.

John smiled softly down at him. "Alright." He turned to leave after one more gentle kiss to his forehead, but paused by the door.

"We're going shopping tonight," John said over his shoulder. "You've been wearing those for, what? Three days now? Nearly four. You need some new clothes." He left the room then, walking into the kitchen to quickly eat some toast and drink a glass of milk before he had to leave. "I'll see you around four," he called over his shoulder as he slipped on his jacket and left the flat.

Sherlock sighed, looking down at his clothes. He hadn't noticed really, used to wearing those filthy jeans. He sat on the bed, listening to the quiet flat.

After a while, Sherlock went back to the book, going through it for two hours before finishing, able to skim it quickly. He smiled, knowing John would find it easier to study now. He sighed, moving into the kitchen to get something small to eat, his stomach feeling what he supposed was normal, not as empty, and not hurting so much now. He turned the music back on and made another plate of food, setting it in the fridge. He knew John would likely skip lunch again.

Sherlock took the day to explore around the flat more, organising the bookshelf and several other things around the flat. He was up so much that by one o'clock he was curled up on the sofa, asleep.

***

If it was possible, John's day was even busier than the previous one. He had to assist in a surgery today, basically acting as head nurse so that he was right in on the action. And as soon as that was done, he was whisked away by another doctor, who needed his "help" diagnosing a patient.

By the time three twenty rolled around, all John wanted to do was curl up in a little ball and sleep. Instead, he caught a cab to the courthouse, arguing and glaring at everyone who questioned his decision, until finally it was approved. Then, finally, he rode a cab back to the flat.

John’s first sight upon entering was Sherlock, curled up on the sofa, dead to the world. Smiling softly, John walked over and curled up beside him, managing to squeeze them both onto the cushions. He was asleep within seconds.

***

Sherlock woke up to a light knock at the door and dragged his eyes open slowly. He felt an arm draped over him and looked over his shoulder to see John wedged behind him, asleep.

Sherlock slowly sat up, looking over at the door to see an older woman there, holding a package. She greeted him, saying it was nice to see him looking better. Sherlock assumed she'd seen him unconscious then. She explained that the package had been left, and she wasn't sure whom from. It was addressed to him. He thanked her, introducing himself awkwardly before she quietly slipped downstairs. 

The package was from Mycroft, as it turned out, and the first thing Sherlock saw in the somewhat large but not too heavy box was an envelope. He picked it up, finding a note that read _'a few essentials'_ along with a new phone.

Sherlock looked in the box and saw his Belstaff coat. It had been a bit long on him before, but when he lifted it up now, it was a perfect fit for him. He'd hardly got to wear it before; it had been a present from his grand-mére. He smiled, looking in the box and having his breath catch in his throat.

At the very bottom was his violin case.

Sherlock lifted it up carefully, walking over to a chair and sitting down quickly, opening it and pulling out the instrument. He felt his eyes sting a little as he ran some rosin over the bow, and quickly tuned it, hands trembling a small bit. Finally he stood, forgetting entirely about the sleeping John, and set the bow to the strings, looking out the window. He paused before he slowly dragged the bow, closing his eyes as he started to play one of his favourite pieces.

***

John was roused by gorgeous music, and at first he thought that Sherlock had turned the radio back on. It took him a moment to realise that the sound he was hearing was far too pure to be coming from a radio. He parted his eyelids and lifted his head, his eyes immediately falling on Sherlock, who was silhouetted against the window, swaying slightly in time to the music he was playing on a gorgeous violin.

John smiled to himself, resting his head on the armrest and watching Sherlock, enjoying the intimate connection the Omega appeared to have with the music.

"That was beautiful," John commented quietly when the song ended. He gestured to the box. "Mycroft, I'm guessing?"

Sherlock blinked, coming back a little to the flat when he heard John speak. He lowered the instrument and the bow to his side, looking down sheepishly.

"I... I haven't played in a long time; it was shaky. And the violin needs more work," Sherlock murmured, moving over to the chair to sit down and spend more time polishing it and tending to the bow. "It's been neglected," he said, looking at the box when John mentioned it. "Yes, he thought I'd need a couple things," he murmured, smiling a little as he held his violin.

John smiled, glad to see Sherlock happy for once. He closed his eyes again, about to drift off when he remembered something. "Oh, right, I went to the courthouse. You're your own person, now. No one can label you anymore," he murmured.

Sherlock glanced up at John, blinking a few times. "You... you didn't have to... th-thank you," he said, not sure what to do with that. What it even meant. He supposed that he could leave, but he could have done that anyway.

John smiled, ducking down on the cushions, getting ready to fall asleep when his stomach growled.

"Damn it. I just want to sleep," John grumbled, rolling over in hopes of ignoring it.

Sherlock noticed John's movements and then stood up, setting his violin tenderly in its case and moving to the fridge to get John's plate he'd made, another sandwich and cold beans, and some fruit. He'd eaten a bit during the day as well. He brought it out and set it down.

At the first whiff of food, John's stomach growled like mad again, and he rolled over, gratefully digging into the sandwich.

"I know you didn't eat lunch," Sherlock said, looking at John for a moment. "Surgery went well then? You helped with this one. They must think you’re ready for more things if they asked you to do such." Which meant that Sherlock would have to recalculate. They might demand to have John sooner from him. 

"I don't think I'll ever tire of you doing that," John admitted, glancing up at Sherlock with another smile. "It did, yeah. I didn't do much, just handed over instruments and cleaned the sight for the surgeon, but it went smoothly. No complications." He took another large bite of his sandwich, chewing thoroughly before swallowing. "And you're welcome for the other thing. I felt obligated. You don't seem the ownership type. You have your own ideas, and I certainly wasn't going to hold you back."

"You wouldn't have held me back, even if you did still hold the card of my ownership," Sherlock said, returning to his violin with a glance up at John.

"Also, I've gone through your book. Painfully dull thing that it was. I've highlighted more necessary information, and made small notes in the margins to where you can find the same thing said in a different section of the book where it's clearer," Sherlock said. He looked up at John. "Can't keep doing that, though; you'll have to do better at focusing despite your shiny new toy," he said with a small smile. He didn't do humour much, and quickly looked down at his violin, not sure he should have said that last part.

John just laughed, popping a piece of fruit in his mouth. "I'll do my best, though they're saying that after this test, I'm mostly just going to be doing hands-on. Apparently they think I'm ready for it. I'm doubting their confidence in me, but I'm not going to argue. Textbooks are the bane of my existence, I swear." He leant back on the couch, closing his eyes for a moment, just enjoying the serenity of the not-empty flat.

All hands on, another factor, the numbers running in the back of Sherlock’s head already. Three months max at this point. They want to see what he can do in spur of the moment surgeries and procedures and high pressure.

Sherlock let out a breath. 

"Are we not going shopping, then?" John enquired, gesturing at the box and then the violin without opening his eyes. "Your call."

Sherlock looked up at him, then shrugged. "You're the one dead on your feet," he countered. "I wore those jeans for months, and it wasn't as if they were washed that thoroughly either," he said with another shrug. "We can go if you like," he said quietly.

John chuckled, pushing himself to his feet with a small groan and rubbing his eyes. "Please, I'm training to be a doctor. I can keep going for at least another ten hours if I had to." John winked at Sherlock, going to put his plate in the kitchen.

"Everything alright?" John asked when he returned, noticing what he could only describe as a worried expression on the Omega's face, though it was much more complex than just worry.

Sherlock was dragged back from the numbers and calculations in his head, looking up at John. "Of course," he said. "Yes."

Sherlock closed his violin case, stroking it a little with a couple fingers before he stood. "I'll just get my slippers," he mumbled, moving down into the bedroom. He came back and pulled on his coat, which was a perfect fit to him now. He pocketed the phone, seeing the charger to it in the box still. He felt a thin plastic card in his pocket, and knew what it was: his trust fund.

Sherlock buttoned up his coat. "Um, ready when you are then, I suppose," he said.

John slipped his bomber jacket back on, grabbing up his wallet and keys again before leading the way down the stairs. "Any place you want to go that you used to shop at? Or are you following my lead?"

Sherlock followed John down the steps, hesitating again at the door before stepping out. "Not especially. Though I would like to get some actual shoes." he said, looking down at the horrible beige slippers.

John paused on the edge of the pavement, waving down a cab and huffing as it kept driving. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, reaching out for his hand while he flagged down another cab, this one slowly pulling up in front of them.

Sherlock sighed, taking John's hand as the cab pulled up and he slid inside. "Following you," he said, looking at John as he slid in as well.

John nodded, giving the address of the store he had had in mind to the waiting cabbie. When they were moving, he stroked his thumb gently over Sherlock's knuckles, resting his head against the seat and letting his eyes slip closed for the moment.

When they arrived at the store, John paid the cabbie and then slid out, leading Sherlock inside. One of the male workers who used to help John out often came up, shaking his hand and wrapping him in a quick hug. "It's nice to see you again," the worker said, smiling widely at John before his gaze flicked over to Sherlock.

John cleared his throat. "Shoes first, I think?" he asked his old friend politely, and the Alpha immediately nodded, leading them off to the back of the store and gesturing at an entire wall of men's shoes. John glanced over at Sherlock, nodding him forward.

Sherlock eyed the man a little, then followed John to the back of the store, looking at the shoes. He smiled a little, walking over and looking over a few pairs. He looked down at his feet, almost certain his feet were the same size. He picked out a pair, trying them on and nodding once.

"These ones," Sherlock said, slipping them off as he didn't have socks. He sighed, taking up John's hand and leading him over towards the socks before he let go, glancing back at the man. "I'll just get some essential things," he said with a nod. "I can get it if you like," he said with a small smile.

John nodded at his friend, who took the hint and left.

"Don't like company?" John asked, watching Sherlock pick out some socks and pants.

Sherlock shrugged a little. "Not especially a fan of people."  _Particularly Alphas,_  he thought, not saying it out loud.

John looked across the store, realising, of course too late, that his friend was another Alpha. He shook his head, directing his attention back to Sherlock.

"Here, come on." John took one look at Sherlock's shoes and led him over to what he figured would be the section of the store that would most interest him. Dress shirts hung in racks on the left, trousers in the middle, and jackets on the right.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, asking without words whether or not this was the look he was going for.

Sherlock looked around at the clothes, and then smiled. "How'd you know?" he asked, picking out a few dress shirts, and trousers as well as a couple jackets. He moved over and got a few pairs of jeans and some t-shirts. He found a cart and draped the clothes in it, grabbing some pyjamas.

"Your shoes. They looked a bit too dressy for jeans and jumpers, and it's kind of a fashion no-no to where black shoes with khakis, so I made the connection." John grinned, following Sherlock as he picked up his clothes.

"Guess I needed a bit more than I thought," Sherlock mumbled. "Like I said, I can cover it," he said quietly.

"Sure, you  _can._  But you're not going to cover it," John replied, walking beside the Omega as they went to check out. "Save your money for something more important. I've got this." He paid for the clothes before Sherlock could argue again, handing half of the bags over to him and leading the way outside.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John's hand had already slid, and he closed it. John didn't seem to understand the concept of a trust fund. He didn't need to  _save_  anything, technically.

Sherlock sighed, walking out of the store with John. He raised an arm and hailed a cab, sinking down into the seat of it when it came, tired from carrying the bags. He wasn't used to running out of energy like this so easily.

John glanced over at Sherlock and put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer and against his side. "We can both go to bed when we get back," he promised in a whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and then nuzzling against him.

Sherlock sighed a little, nodding in agreement to the bed idea.

"I appreciate you coming along," John murmured, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Well had I not come along you would have been guessing what I liked as well as my size and it would have ended in me coming along for the exchanges," Sherlock said.

Sherlock swallowed, glancing at John. "What about your test? You'll only have the one day left to finish your book," he said, knowing he took time from John's studies. But then... perhaps that would keep him there longer? No, that was childish. He sighed, resting his head on John's shoulder, knowing he wouldn't have it later.

John swore quietly to himself at the mention of his test. "God, I forgot all about that damn thing," he murmured, letting out a long sigh. "I should probably do that. You should still sleep though," he said, running his fingers through the soft strands of Sherlock's hair. "You're welcome to use the shower, too. I can take the bandages off of your wrists tonight, and I'll just redo the one on your side when you're done."

Feeling the cab starting to slow down, John parted his eyelids, looking up through the windscreen and seeing that they were almost home.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, nodding a little. They both climbed out of the cab when it pulled up to the flat and Sherlock worked to get his bags up the stairs, setting them down with the box in the living room, not even sure where to put his things otherwise. He hadn't thought of that; perhaps he should see about chipping in for rent and taking the upstairs room?

Sherlock sighed, dragging out the pyjamas John had bought for him and moving towards the bathroom. "Just focus on what I've pointed out in the book," he said with a glance at John. "I... can take these off myself," he said, nodding at his bandages before disappearing into the bathroom.

John sighed lightly to himself, picking up his book and starting over from the beginning, reading through the paragraphs and sentences Sherlock had highlighted. He stared at the Omega's elegant scrawl in the side margins, committing the loops and lines to memory.

Sherlock peeled off his bandages, his wrists a sickly yellow colour where they weren't scabbed over. He also carefully pulled off the dressing around his incision. It looked smaller than he thought, only three small stitches holding it shut.

Sherlock sighed, getting into the shower and humming at the warmth. After he'd finished, which he spent a little while in there, he dried off and pulled on the pyjamas he'd picked out, moving into the bedroom. He waited a little while, hearing the occasional page flip. He sighed, falling asleep curled up in a small ball, stitches still uncovered.

John heard the shower start running at some point, though he didn't glance up to check the time. He got lost in the text of the book and the quick notes that Sherlock had left, and before he knew it, he was done reading and it was past midnight.

Rubbing his eyes with a heavy sigh, John pushed to his feet, walking into the bedroom and stripping down to his pants, too tired to pull on his pyjamas, before crawling under the covers and curling up behind Sherlock. He was asleep almost instantly, wrapped up in the calm scent of the Omega beside him.

\----------------------------------------------------------

John had to drag himself out of bed when his alarm went off, and he immediately trudged into the bathroom for a long hot shower. He shaved quickly, returning to the bedroom to pull on clean clothes, pleased to see Sherlock still sleeping. He smiled to himself, taking a moment to just watch Sherlock before he knew he had to leave.

In the kitchen, John scribbled Sherlock a quick note, telling him to make room in the closet and chest of drawers for his clothes, and to not feel bad at all about moving John's around. He reminded him to eat something, and then grabbed an apple before heading out of the door.

***

Sherlock barely heard John's alarm, so used to it by now that he fell back asleep when it turned off.  By the time he actually got up, John was gone already. He shambled into the kitchen, finding the note and smirking, filling up a glass to take a painkiller.

As requested, Sherlock ate a little bit of food and moved into the living room. He looked at the bags, figuring he should put them away... but his eyes were dragged instead to his violin, and he walked over to it, smiling. After tending to it further, he reacquainted himself, playing a few familiar pieces before he slowly started to play the song he'd written in his head, working out the notes and correcting it. He lost himself completely in the process, the sad piece dragging out then repeating itself, and he didn't notice how much time had passed.

***

Assist a surgery, treat a patient, perform a minor operation, stitch a leg wound, and repeat. By the time John got home, the only thing he could think about was sleeping, and he walked past the living room, managing a smile at the sight of Sherlock playing his violin.

John dropped his jacket on the floor by the foot of the bed, toed off his shoes, and collapsed on the mattress. As soon as his eyes closed, he was asleep. 

***

Sherlock turned his head to look at John as the Alpha walked past, looking exhausted. He finished the piece, and then moved into the kitchen, grabbing a banana and walking into the bedroom. He perched on the bed, reading the day’s work on John, and kept counting down to when he would be gone.

Sherlock sighed, watching him for a couple hours before touching his shoulder and shaking gently. "You need to eat something," he mumbled, setting the banana next to him.

John groaned, looking over at Sherlock and then pushing himself up into a sitting position, crossing his legs and picking up the banana.

"Thanks," John murmured, yawning as he peeled the fruit and took a bite. "I swear, they're trying to see how thin they can stretch me before I snap," he commented once the banana was gone. "I assisted in two large-scale surgeries today, performed three of my own small operations, and then was chasing around doing all of these little things for everyone else." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I just want to sleep for the rest of my life."

Sherlock looked at him steadily. "I know," he murmured, though admittedly he had thought two small operations and not three. He sighed, looking at John steadily.

"They're purposefully loading more onto you, testing your skill, and how well you work under pressure, as well as how you react to being told to do things short notice," Sherlock said. "The only logical reason behind this being that they want you sooner. And, in all likelihood, will have you sooner as well," he said.

Sherlock stood up. "Which means that you need to eat more and then sleep, you have a test tomorrow," he mumbled, leaving the room and going into the kitchen to attempt to make something hot. He sat at the table, resting his head on his arms as a can of soup sat on the stove heating in a pot.

John cocked his head when Sherlock left, his brow furrowing as he tried to think through the tone he had detected in Sherlock's voice. Regret? Sorrow?

John pushed off of the bed, making his way into the kitchen. He walked up behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his chest and pressing his face between his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing his lips over Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, then stood up, walking out of the embrace quickly to stir the soup, which was stuck to the bottom of the pot. He swore, chucking the whole thing in the sink.

Sherlock huffed a sigh, running his fingers through his hair a little. "You... you managed to feed yourself before I got here," he muttered, crossing over to his violin and snatching it up, tossing himself haphazardly into an armchair, plucking at it. 

John ignored the slight temptation of food, crossing into the living room and sitting down in his chair across from Sherlock.

"Talk to me? Please? I don't understand, and I'd like to," John murmured, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

Sherlock plucked at a string viciously and then stilled them, laying his hand over the instrument. He looked up at John, his face blank.

"There's nothing to understand, or talk about," Sherlock said simply. "I'm sure this is just some overreaction. I've gone through what I'm sure many would rightly classify as a trauma, can't expect me not to act irrationally. At any rate, you'll find out sometime next week after your test tomorrow is graded. You'll pass of course, and then they'll make their decision based on your performance this week," he said.

"You're leaving John, I give it two months based on what I've observed," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the violin. "I am excited for you, truly. You've worked hard for this, and have planned for it for a long time." 

John flinched and looked down at his lap. Abandonment issues, not that John could blame him. "I'm coming back," he promised quietly, but his voice was confident and firm. "I'm not dying in a desert; I'll come back for you."

John sighed, shoving his hand into his hair. "I'm sorry if it feels like I've been leading you on, but I can't ignore how I feel about you. I don't want to leave you, I don't. It's killing me to think that I have to go – part of me doesn't want to. Quite a large part, now." He swallowed, rising to his feet, exhaustion driving him away before he got worked up. "But I promise you, I'm coming back."

Sherlock looked up at him as he stood, then down again, his expression softer. "I understand," he said quietly. He stroked his violin a little before setting it aside.

Sherlock swallowed, then stood up, looking at him. "You do need to eat something else, can't starve yourself. As a doctor I thought you'd know better," he said with a small smile. "I burnt the soup... can't cook for hell," he said with a small shrug. 

He thought about the promise, and he knew John meant it. He could feel that John meant it. But where stray bullets were concerned, they were unpredictable. Sherlock couldn't predict what was going to happen, too many factors. He let out a breath. "Food, now," he said. "Or  _I_  won't eat."

John reached out for Sherlock's hand, pulling him along into the kitchen.

"Sit. I'll fix us something," John instructed kindly, letting go of Sherlock and moving to the fridge. He pulled out some minced meat that had been thawing, taking it over to the stove to brown it, adding in some onion powder for flavour as he boiled noodles in a pot on another burner.

"You know, I don't expect you to cook for me," John said, looking over his shoulder at the Omega. "I'm a perfectly good bachelor. I learnt how to cook before I even got to uni." He poured spaghetti sauce over the meat, turning the heat down to a low simmer before adding in basil and oregano and just a dash of garlic powder. "Come taste this, tell me what you think."

Sherlock stood up and moved over to the stove. He looked at the spoon John used to stir and lifted it to taste. "It's good," he said with a nod.  "And I don't think I have to cook for you, I just felt you did more today," he said. 

John leant his shoulder against Sherlock's arm, linking their fingers together and lifting his hand to examine Sherlock’s wrist. "These are looking better," he commented, reaching for Sherlock’s other hand to examine the marks on that wrist as well. "How's your side?"

"It's okay," Sherlock murmured, John's fingers lacing with his own blistered ones. It had been so long since he'd played, the strings were as harsh against his fingertips as they had been when he was a novice.

John didn't want to talk about leaving any more that night, or ever again, really. He didn't want to leave, period. But the army needed doctors, and they needed infantry members, and John figured he could give them both for two years.

John sighed, grabbing the colander and draining the noodles in the sink. After dishing up a plate for Sherlock and one for himself, he took a seat at the table, pushing around the pasta for a moment before taking a bite.

Sherlock took a plate and sat across from John, glancing up at him before back down at his plate, taking a forkful of the pasta and putting it in his mouth. "Decided then," he murmured. "I'm not cooking for you... do well enough on your own. I burn soup," he said, taking another bite, appetite striking again as his stomach healed. 

John chuckled, eating more of the pasta. He stood after a while, pouring himself and Sherlock a glass of water before retaking his seat. "Yeah, cooking is one thing I can do," he said with another small laugh, starting to eat again.

"You should come with me tomorrow. I'll introduce you to Molly, and she can show you her lab. I talked to her yesterday before I had left and she said it was fine." He shrugged, finishing his water and then leaning back in his chair. "I think you would have more fun there than you're having here." 

 _And it'll give you a place to go when I'm gone and you're bored_. But John didn't say that. He couldn't say that.

Sherlock shrugged a little. "Perhaps," he said quietly, eating another small bite of pasta. He looked back at his violin; he supposed that wasn't going anywhere. He looked up at John. "As long as it doesn't interfere or anything with you taking your test," he said. "And doing whatever else they'll have you do," he murmured. 

John smiled at Sherlock's concern. "It doesn't, I promise. I'm on the upper levels with the people that are still breathing. Molly's in the morgue." He rose to his feet, taking his plate and glass to the sink.

"I'm going to take a shower. Meet me in the bedroom when you're done, there's something I'd like to do." John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair before grabbing his pyjamas from the bedroom and walking into the bathroom.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, his brow furrowing in confusion. Something John wanted to do? He sighed, not sure what that meant.

Sherlock finished most of the small plate John had fixed him, glad John had remembered a small portion for him. He covered the pot of pasta and set it in the fridge before he moved back into the living room and moved his bags into a corner. He was still in pyjamas, so he went to the bedroom and perched in a chair by the window.

John showered quickly, mostly just wanting to get the smell of the hospital off of him. As soon as he felt clean, he towelled off and changed, padding back into the bedroom.

"Come here," John whispered, motioning Sherlock over to the bed. He gestured for him to sit on the edge of it, and, when the Omega complied, he crawled onto the mattress behind him.

Sherlock looked over at John, his forehead creased a little in confusion as he stood up, sitting on the edge of the bed as directed to. He let out a breath as John slid up behind him, straightening up a little.

John kneeled behind Sherlock so that his knees were pressed to either side of Sherlock's hips, just inches away from their bodies curving together. "Hands on your lap," he murmured, brushing his lips against Sherlock's neck, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

With the skill of a man who knew where every stress-bearing muscle was, John slowly started massaging Sherlock's shoulders and back, using his thumbs to gently ease the tension from the knots that had formed.

"John, what are you –?" Sherlock cut himself off as John's hands moved to his shoulders, rubbing and kneading gently. He let out a small sigh, humming slightly as his eyes slid shut. "Tha... that feels... mm, good," he mumbled quietly, feeling his shoulders slowly start to loosen; he hadn't been aware that they were tense to begin with.

Sherlock let out another breath. "You worked all day... don' have to do this," he murmured. "Unless you're reviewing musculature for your test..." he quipped.

"Not at all," John whispered, his lips brushing Sherlock's skin as he kissed along the exposed flesh above the collar of his shirt. "It's relaxing for me as well."

John kissed the Omega's pulse point, up to the back of his ear, and then back down again. His fingers worked skilfully closer to his spine, easing out the tension that had been building for the last god knew how many years.

John closed his eyes, just enjoying being close to Sherlock; enjoying his smell, his taste, the feel of him unfolding beneath his ministrations.

Sherlock hummed again, his eyes drooping shut after a few minutes, feeling the lips against him.

"Why're you so..." Sherlock strained to find a word, one he rarely used for anything really, but he couldn't find another, "perfect?" He sighed, not noticing when he leant back against John's chest, head falling back to rest against John's shoulder as he looked up at him.  

John wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock's chest, holding his hands flat against his sternum. "I'm not perfect, Sherlock. Not by a long shot. But, I don't know… around you I try to be."

John smiled, running his hands over Sherlock's chest and stomach, turning his head to nuzzle Sherlock's neck. He pressed open mouthed kissed up under his jaw, running his tongue along the edge of it, scraping once with his teeth.

"I think you're a bit more perfect than I am," John murmured, kissing his cheek and reaching up to card his fingers through Sherlock's hair, massaging his fingers against his scalp.

Sherlock let out a breath, relaxing fully against John. He felt John's teeth on his jaw and shuddered a little, his thoughts slamming to a halt. He blinked stupidly. "Um..." he couldn't find any words, he couldn't think... "I'm not.... um... what?" he asked drowsily.

John grinned as soon as he realised the effect this was having on Sherlock. "Like that?" he purred, nosing under Sherlock's jaw, nipping at one of his tendons and nibbling his way down his neck, his arm holding Sherlock firmly against his chest. He moved his lips up again, scraping his teeth against the full length of Sherlock's jaw, kissing and licking his way up to his ear, where he nipped the lobe and then sucked it between his lips. He never stopped running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, thoroughly enjoy the soft sounds he was making.

Sherlock nodded a small bit, his eyes closing a bit again, body completely relaxed, pliant against John's body.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, letting out a breath. "S'not fair..." he said quietly. "They gonna take you 'way," he murmured. The words left him before he realised how full of sentiment they were, not like him. He didn't allow himself to say things like that.

John made a small noise, pulling back and gently pushing Sherlock's shoulder to make him lie down. John did the same beside him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pulling him close, nuzzling into his hair.

"I know," John whispered, closing his eyes as he continued to pepper Sherlock with gentle kisses. "I know it's not fair. And I'm so sorry."

Sherlock curled up, holding onto John's arm gently, eyes still closed. He swallowed, letting out a breath. "Not entirely your fault. Would have happened anyway. You saved my life though... anything else well... there's later," he said, though he wondered really what would happen later. To both of them. Two years was a long time. "Plenty of time later.”

"Will you still be here when I get back?" John asked quietly, pulling back to gaze at the Omega. He wanted Sherlock to say yes, of course. But he couldn't blame Sherlock if he ended up leaving.

Before John could get an answer, his phone rang out from behind him, making him jump and then swallow down his rapid pulse. Rolling over, John answered the mobile curtly, wondering who the hell was calling after supper.

John stiffened when he heard the voice at the other end explaining what was going on. "I understand," he barely managed to say without his voice cracking before he hung up the phone, tossing it onto the nightstand before he could throw it at the wall.

Sherlock thought a moment, opening his mouth to answer when the phone rang. His brow furrowed when John pulled away, watching his posture change as he was on the phone. He waited, his stomach sinking low.

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, though he had a very good, and, what he hoped for once, was a very wrong idea.

John forced himself to stay in control of his emotions, not wanting to break down in front of Sherlock. "A week," he murmured, his voice so low that he could hardly hear. "No matter how I do on the test tomorrow, I'm being shipped out in a week."

John wiped at his cheeks, pushing away the tears that had started to form. "One of their infantry doctors just got shipped back home in a box, and they need a replacement as soon as possible. Apparently, I was next in line." He dropped his head, shoving a hand through his hair.

"God, I need a drink." John pushed away from the bed, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

Sherlock felt something unfamiliar clench almost painfully in his chest, as he watched John leave. 

 _Shipped back home in a box.... in a box._  

Sherlock swallowed, sitting up and covering his stitches with his hand as he heard John in the kitchen. He didn't know what he felt, it was completely and utterly... unfamiliar. He waited a little while before standing up and moving down the hall into the living room to pick up his violin, starting to play it. He didn't even know what he was playing, the notes just coming from his fingers as he tried to think.

John tipped back the first glass in two swallows, his hands trembling with the force of holding in his emotions. He poured a second glass full, making his way into the living room and sinking down numbly onto the couch, curling up against the armrest and nursing the drink between his hands.

A week. A fucking week. God that wasn't enough time. That wasn't  _fair._  John whimpered, his lower lip trembling as tears started slipping from his eyes.

The notes Sherlock were playing faltered at the small noise, and he set the instrument down abruptly. He turned to look at John, and felt the painful clench in his chest again. He bit his lip, then moved over to the sofa and stepped up to sit behind John, wrapping his arms and legs around him as he pressed against John's back, not really sure how to comfort someone; normally he wouldn't care.

"You're scared," Sherlock said quietly. "That's... okay. Normal," he murmured into John's neck.

John gave a choked sob, leaning back into Sherlock's arms and resting his hand over one of Sherlock's. "I'm not ready yet. I'm not ready for war, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm not ready to be shot at and to do the shooting. I'm not ready to leave you." He turned around in Sherlock's arms, burying his face in the crook of the Omega's neck and clinging to him tightly.

Sherlock felt... something he didn't want to in that instant and forced it down, holding John tighter and focusing on him.

"Now don't... don't make this about me... I'll be fine," Sherlock said, not really knowing if that was true. "You... you'll be fine. You'll do brilliant, saving lives and all. It's what you wanted to do," he said. "You're not going to get shot."

John nodded against Sherlock's neck, willing himself to believe what Sherlock was saying. He pulled away slowly, wiping at his eyes. "This is about you, too, Sherlock," he whispered, cupping the Omega’s face between his hands and leaning forward to kiss him gently, his lips lingering over Sherlock's but not demanding anything.

Sherlock sighed, resting his forehead against John's. "Well don't make it," he said. "I've only been here a few days and..." he paused. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, looking up at John, whose breath smelled of whiskey. "Okay? I'm not," he said, "Most of the time doctors... they're behind the lines more. And two years... that's nothing. I almost spent four in that horrible place. At least you'll have purpose, something to look forward to?" he tried, wanting John to not be so distraught.

 _Not going anywhere_. John sat still for a moment, letting those words fully sink in before he threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, holding him close. "It's going to be the longest two years of my life, and I'm going to spend every day thinking about you," he promised, clinging to him. "I'm going to write to you, because lord knows I won't have enough time to Skype."

John drew in a long breath to clear his mind. He could do this; he would come back.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, then tightened his arms around John, burying his face in the Alpha's neck. "You might find some... you never know. Could get boring over there at times," he murmured. 

"God, I hope so," John whispered, pressing kisses to Sherlock's shoulder and up his neck. "Let's go to bed. I'm not going in tomorrow, since I don't need to take that test anymore."

John stood up slowly, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him back into the bedroom, where he curled up on the bed and tugged Sherlock down with him.

Sherlock nodded, padding down the hallway after John. He climbed into the bed and snuggled up close to John, wrapping an arm around him. He was lying flush on his sutures, but it hardly ached now, his chest aching more than enough.

Sherlock let out a breath. "Perhaps... but can we still go out tomorrow? Do something at least; you can maybe… show me the lab. We can do something else, too, maybe," he said, not sure what it was people did really.

John tucked his head under Sherlock's chin, nuzzling against his collarbone. "Of course. We can go look at the lab and then go out to eat. There's a nice restaurant not far from here that I rather enjoy. Then... I don't know. Maybe walk through the park or something." His eyelids were already drooping, and he rested his hand on Sherlock's hip in an effort to keep him close.

Sherlock nodded. "Sounds nice," he said, watching as John's tiredness started pulling him under. He let out a breath, keeping his eyes on John's as they pulled shut. He bit his lip a little, then leant forward and pressed his lips to John's forehead gently once he was sure he was asleep.

"You're the first person I was close to, John, and the first I trusted outside my brother, who I don't even know anymore," Sherlock said, looking down. He sighed. "You leave... and that leaves just me. So don't stay gone," he said softly to the sleeping John. He sighed again and shut his eyes, though he didn't fall asleep for at least a couple hours.


	7. Chapter 7

John woke up late the next morning to the sun shining in through the window. He didn't move, still held tightly in Sherlock's warm embrace. Memories from the previous night came crashing in on him, and he fought back the wave of emotion that threatened to spill over on him.

John rolled over slowly, checking the time on his phone, groaning slightly when he saw that it was after ten. Setting the device back down, he rolled back over, snuggling up against Sherlock once more.

Sherlock had awoken when John's alarm should have gone off and didn't. He didn't move from where he was and shut his eyes again, trying to sleep once more but failed. Instead he retreated into his mind and stayed there curled up, thinking. He was roused from his mind though when he felt John move.

"You're awake," Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

John peered up at Sherlock, rubbing his hand along Sherlock’s back. "I didn't realise that you were. Did I wake you or were you thinking?" he asked quietly, leaning up to kiss under Sherlock's jaw, following the gentle curve of it to his chin and then up to his soft lips.

Sherlock's mouth quirked up a little in one corner. "Thinking," he murmured. "You needed the sleep still," he said. God knew how much he'd be getting over there. He let out a breath, opening his eyes and looking at John. "It's all fine... right?" he asked carefully, looking at John.

John nodded slowly, holding Sherlock's gaze. His eyes looked more silver this morning than the blue-green John knew them to be. The inner ring of yellow shone more of a golden bronze in the heavy morning light.

John reached up, combing through Sherlock's curls. "Yeah, it's all fine," he replied, sliding his hand down to cup Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock sighed, reaching up and covering John's hand with his own. "Good," he said after a few minutes. He blinked a couple times, lifting John's hand off his head, hesitating a slight second before pressing a kiss to his palm.

"Waited for you to get up so I wouldn't wake you," Sherlock murmured. "Going to take a shower... get dressed," he said, sitting up with a wince, hand going to his side, which ached a bit.

John set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, holding him in place as he sat up, more alert at the notice of Sherlock's discomfort.

"Stop," John instructed, switching over to doctor mode. "Don't move." He lifted Sherlock's shirt, skimming his fingers around the small incision. He sighed, reaching over for the first aid kit and pulling it onto the bed. "It's starting to get infected," he said, pulling out some iodine and dabbing a soaked cotton ball against the cut.

Sherlock froze on the bed with a sigh, holding still as John looked at his incision. "It's fine," he murmured quietly. He winced, hissing a little as John cleaned it.

"Alright, you're good. I'll put a bandage on it when you get back." John kissed Sherlock's shoulder, patting his hand while he repacked the kit.

Sherlock nodded, standing up and moving into the hall to dig through his bags, fishing out some clothes. After he'd grabbed them, he walked into the bathroom, stripping down and climbing into the shower, turning the water on hot and standing there, thinking.

Now fully awake, John pushed out of bed and walked into the living room, grabbing Sherlock's bags and bringing them into the bedroom. While Sherlock showered, John methodically hung up the suits and dress shirts, giving Sherlock half of the closet. He also reorganised the chest of drawers, giving Sherlock the top two drawers for his clothes and taking the bottom two for himself. When he was done, he stripped out of his pyjamas and pulled on dark jeans and a jumper, heading back into the living room.

Sherlock took a little while in the bathroom, even shaving a small bit in the areas he grew facial hair, which had got a bit scraggly. He bunched up his pyjamas and walked into the living room, wanting to put them in an empty bag. He stopped over the threshold, though, the bags gone.

Sherlock blinked, glancing up at John and then carried the clothes back to the room, setting them on the bed. He'd just be putting them on later anyway. He sighed, moving into the living room and standing there, looking at John. "So…"

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes sweeping over his suit-clad frame. It looked remarkably good on him, and the dark blue dress shirt pulled out some of the green in his eyes. "You look really good," John commented before he could catch himself. He smiled to cover it up.

"I put your clothes in the bedroom – suits in the closet, everything else in the top two drawers of the chest of drawers." John got to his feet, walking over to Sherlock and mussing up a section of his damp hair. "Would you like to head to the lab, then?"

Sherlock looked down, smoothing down his shirt and looking back up at John. "Thank you. I could pick you something out as well that's not so.... knit," he said, looking at John's jumper. It was the one he'd almost puked blood onto he realised, now that he looked at it. "And we can, yeah," he said.

John grinned, walking over to the door and pulling on his bomber jacket. "I'd like that," he said, his voice tangling with a light laugh. "Any idea what colour shirt you'd get? Not yellow or orange, please." Grabbing his keys and wallet – he should really just start leaving them in his jacket pockets – he trotted down the stairs, waiting for Sherlock at the bottom.

Sherlock reached up and pulled on his coat, buttoning it and turning up his collar.

"God no, lighter green, or blue I think," Sherlock said as he moved down the stairs, hands in his pockets. He bit his lip, then pulled out one hand, wrapping his fingers around John's sleeve, holding onto it.

John shifted his arm, sliding his hand into Sherlock's and lacing their fingers together. He led the way from the flat, taking them onto the street and waving for a cab.

"I like the green idea. I've got enough blue to drown someone," John teased, looking up at Sherlock with kind eyes.

When a cab finally pulled up, John held the door for Sherlock, sliding in behind him and rattling off the memorised address to the hospital.

Sherlock smirked a bit. "I'm sure just saying ‘Bart's’ would have sufficed," he said with a small smile. He kept his hand in John's, looking at him.

"I like having the addresses to everything memorised. Keeps me from getting lazy," John said, grinning over at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed a little, biting his lip as he thought. "John... I think, I wouldn't mind staying," he said. "I mean, that is, well I never saw myself as ever... ever um, having a, um, bondmate, but... I think... with you, it might be something I want. Possibly," he said awkwardly, ears warming a small bit.

John furrowed his brow when Sherlock began speaking again, obviously struggling for words. A smile broke across his lips when Sherlock mentioned bondmates, and he squeezed his hand, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "You know, I've been thinking the exact same thing," he admitted.

Sherlock let out a breath. _What was that? Relief?_ He smiled a little, glancing over at John. "Well then... you, you'll just have something to look forward to then... w-won't you?" he asked with an attempt at a smile, which really wasn't too difficult.

"I have a lot to look forward to," John whispered, kissing Sherlock's cheek and holding him close.

Sherlock didn't want that now; he'd read about the whole process, and separation too soon after is tortuous, primarily for the Omega, or so the studies said. He sighed, leaning his head on John's shoulder.

John let the cab fall silent for the remainder of the trip, looking up when the hospital walls loomed over them.

"We're here," John murmured, leaning away from Sherlock to pay the cabbie and open the door.

Sherlock looked out at the building and nodded, climbing out of the cab and waiting for John. He looked up at the white building, then around, seeing a phone booth and a couple benches. He put his hands in his pockets, pulling out the phone inside for the first time to actually look at it.

John smiled, stepping up beside Sherlock and taking his free hand. "Molly's waiting to meet you. Best not to disappoint her," John teased, leading the way into the hospital. He avoided the main lobby area, not wanting to deal with the _'why didn't you come in this morning'_ s and the _'so this is the Omega you saved; glad to see he's doing better'_ s. No, best to remain as discrete as possible – more comfortable for the both of them.

John moved over to the lift, stepping inside and holding the door for Sherlock as he pressed the button for the basement. "She's a little flamboyant," John warned, glancing up at Sherlock. "And she doesn't always know what to say, but she's a kind soul."

Sherlock tensed a little as they entered the hospital, unable to help it, but relaxed a little as they moved down the lift. He glanced over towards John.

"Flamboyant?" Sherlock inquired, not sure how to interpret that particular piece of information. His eyes moved over the lift, the whole thing reeking of hospital, so he tried instead to focus on John's scent, not hard in the small space.

"Yeah, she... well, I've never seen her sad or unhappy in any way. She's very excited about her job, which actually worries me a little." John smiled over at Sherlock, squeezing his hand tightly. "She's nice though. She's been a good friend to me."

John looked away when the lift stopped moving, stepping out into the much cooler basement air. "Lab's this way. Not sure if Molly has a fresh body or not, so she might be busy at the moment." 

Sherlock nodded once, following John down the hall. It didn't smell so much down here like a hospital, but rather like death and metal. He actually preferred it to illness.

"She's a mortician then... makes sense she'd have a lab at her disposal," Sherlock murmured. They pushed through a pair of doors and Sherlock blinked, seeing all the rows of freezers for bodies, and a partially covered body on a slab. He didn't see anyone in the room, though, but there were a few doors off to the side. Probably an office, and the lab.

Sherlock walked up to the body, looking down at her. Beta, asphyxiated, with... he narrowed his eyes a little. "Her purse strap," he mused quietly. 

"Sorry, what?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock by the body. There wasn't time for an answer, however, because Molly chose that moment to walk in. "Hey, Molly," John greeted, raising his hand in a wave.

"John. Hi." Molly smiled, walking over to her friend and wrapping him in a short hug. She cocked her head when she pulled away, noticing something different about the Alpha's scent, something that didn't quite belong to the John she usually pictured. She decided not to mention it, turning instead to the lanky boy by the body she had just received.

"You must be Sherlock," Molly greeted, stepping up to shake his hand. When he didn't reciprocate, she let it go, not at all bothered. "She just came in this morning," she said, gesturing to the body that Sherlock seemed to have so much interest in. "Apparently the police found her in an ally. Bruises around her neck indicate strangling but that's all they have. I couldn't find any foreign DNA on her, though it was evident she had been cleaned before her body was dumped."

Sherlock tilted his head a little, looking over her and then snatching up the papers on her. Personal effects, clothes, watch. No sign of sexual abuse. No purse.

Sherlock leant over and narrowed his eyes, looking at the mark on her neck. He pulled out his phone, looking up something while he saw the bag with her effects on the other slab. He walked over, pulling on a glove on his way and fishing out the watch, smirking a little. "Check with ex-boyfriends or perhaps... a fiancé..." he murmured.

"She wasn't mugged; they took her purse to make it look like it... probably still have it too," Sherlock said. "It was her purse, the brand engraved in the leather of the strap shows up on her neck, and it's the same as her watch," he said. “A mugger has a plan for killing someone, a knife or a gun, they wouldn't have strangled her last minute with her purse," he said, sitting up and glancing over at John and Molly.

John stared, his mouth slightly open from shock. He glanced over at Molly, who seemed to shake herself and trotted from the room.

"That was amazing," John said with a smile, leaning against the edge of one of the empty slabs. "How did you notice any of that? And make the connections?" He shook his head, smiling stupidly as he dragged a hand down his face. "Brilliant. God, you're brilliant." He looked over when Molly came back into the room, handing a mobile over to Sherlock.

"It's Detective Inspector Lestrade," she explained. "Please, tell him what you told me. I asked him to come down but he won't without you telling him."

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, smiling and nodding encouragingly.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, taking the phone and holding it to his ear. He wondered how it was one was supposed to greet their brother in law... He didn't, and simply reiterated what he'd just rattled off, adding that for where she was found and the method that it was someone she knew, who was angry. And that they probably had the phone still – sentiment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little when asked how he knew. "I just observed, I used my eyes. My dear brother can vouch for my ability to use them," he said, hanging up childishly with a sigh, handing the phone back to Molly. "It was just an observation, I didn't want to get involved in the investigation," he murmured, moving back to lean against the same slab John was, his shoulder brushing against his.

John leant a little more against Sherlock, so that the entire line of their arms were touching. He caught Molly's knowing look at him and he blushed slightly. "Molly, um..." John looked up at Sherlock and then over to Molly. "You know I've been training to go to Afghanistan?" She nodded, her eyebrows furrowing in obvious confusion of why he was bringing the topic up. "I'm being deployed in a week."

Sherlock sighed, pushing off of the counter and walking into the lab next door, fiddling with the microscope, almost like the one Mummy had got him for Christmas before... well the last Christmas he'd had since. He heard quiet chatter through the door and sat down at one of the stools, pulling out his phone. 

_John's family. Find them. SH_

_Has he misplaced them? MH_

_Shut up and do it. You didn't find me, but find them okay? SH_

_They should be back and better and happy by the time... well soon. SH_

_By the time Dr Watson returns from his deployment? MH_

_You know? Can you stop it? SH_

_I cannot. I am sorry, but I'm afraid he is needed. And he did volunteer. Not my department as it were, brother. But I will do what I can regarding his family. MH_

Sherlock didn't even bother responding, sighing as he looked at his phone.

John nodded at Molly before walking from the room, following after Sherlock into the lab. "Sherlock?" he called as he pushed open the door. He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him and facing the Omega. "You okay?" He stepped up to where Sherlock was seated, slowly reaching out and running his fingers through those dark curls.

Sherlock nodded once, sighing and putting his phone away. Maybe Mycroft would find them before John had to leave.

It was wishful thinking; Sherlock never hoped for anything. Hope was illogical, wishing never did anything. There was just the facts, and the probability of something happening. You couldn't calculate hope, and yet, Sherlock felt himself wishing and hoping these things for John.

Sherlock looked up at John. "Fine, just... familiarising myself," he said, looking around the lab.

John nodded understandingly, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Would you like to go eat, then? There's a small cafe down the street that serves excellent hot sandwiches. I'm suddenly not in the mood for anything else." He held out his hand to Sherlock, waiting for him to make the decision. "I just want to spend time with you."

Sherlock looked over at the hand, waiting a moment before reaching out and taking it. "Sure. You mean where one might have gone for lunch if he ever decided to take one," he said with a small smirk. He felt something in his chest warm a bit when John said he wanted to spend time with him, and he smiled.

John laughed. "Yeah, you caught me. I used to stop by the cafe every day with Mike before I started getting really busy." Mentioning Mike reminded him that he had to pay him back, sooner now than he had thought.

They walked out of the lab and, when they did, Lestrade was there, examining the bruising on the woman's neck. He looked up. "Ah, Sherlock so... so you're sure about this then?"

Sherlock blinked a couple times. "I don't need to be sure; I know it's right," he said.

Lestrade looked back at the body. "Talked to the family, said that she and her boyfriend have been having problems and that they can't get a hold of him. He has a record as well for violence," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "Track the phone, he'll have kept it. Sentiment," he said, "Remind my brother about his little chore would you?" he said, before tugging John out of the morgue.

John sighed, following Sherlock back into the morgue, listening to the two Omegas conversing. He was a bit surprised when Sherlock took the lead from the room but followed along none the less.

"What chore is your brother doing?" John asked curiously, stepping up so that he was in stride with Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced over at John and shook his head. "Nothing, something he owes me is all," he said, not wanting to promise John anything he couldn't keep. He slowed his pace down, tightening his hand around John's.

"It's odd though, Lestrade seems, well, nice, I suppose normal people would call him. Which makes me wonder why Mycroft and he... that is, my brother never seemed the kind to..." Sherlock shook his head. He'd missed a lot. 

"Well, look at you," John said, gesturing at Sherlock. "Oh, don't give me that look. I may not be as smart as you, but I'm intuitive and am most certainly not stupid." He squeezed Sherlock's hand back, rolling his thumb over his knuckles. "You've obviously not a sociable person, and yet you're fine with my presence and touch. You don't like to think about the future, intently focused on the present, but you want to be my bondmate." He smiled again at the thought, bringing Sherlock's hand up to his lips to kiss it. "Maybe it just takes the right person."

Sherlock shrugged a little, though a small smile tugged at his mouth. He sighed as they moved back up into the lift. "I suppose so..." he said quietly. He looked around the hospital a bit nervously as they moved though it and outside finally. He let out a breath, feeling better not being inside.

" _When_  you do get back and are working in a hospital, don't think I'm going to ever,  _ever,_  come see you at work," Sherlock said, glancing back at the doors and then forward again. 

John supposed he shouldn't have laughed, seeing as it was a true fear of Sherlock's, but he couldn't help himself. The strong contempt on Sherlock's face mixed with the tone of his voice was simply too much. He held tighter to Sherlock's hand, stopping on the pavement and giggling.

"Sorry, sorry," John murmured, continuing to chortle as he walked forward again. "God, it's just..." he grinned. "Oh, lord. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh."

Sherlock looked down, pursing his lips a little. "God forbid you ever have a phobia, John Watson; I will find it. And exploit it..." he said. "And don't think you can hide it from me forever, either," he muttered, already trying to think about the things he'd seen, or rather the things he  _hadn't_ seen in the flat. Things John wanted to avoid.

John wiped at his eyes, smiling until he thought of something sobering. "And what if my only fear ever is losing you?" he asked quietly, staring down at the pavement as they walked towards the cafe.

John didn't have any irrational fears – never had. His fears were simple. Afraid that he would one day stumble upon his family and they wouldn't recognise him or he wouldn't recognise them. Fear that his family was dead and he would never see them again. That's why he had no pictures of them in the flat. And now his newest fear – that he wouldn't come home from the war; that this would be his last week ever with Sherlock.

"The simple response to that is that I'm not going anywhere. Don't focus on that fear, because you won't lose me. Focus on not losing yourself, and then that fear won't matter," Sherlock said. He threw a glance down at John, sighing a little and shaking his head. "It's fine. It'll all be fine," he said, shouting it to himself in his head.

John sighed and nodded, knowing Sherlock was right. "Yeah, it'll all be fine," he murmured, thinking of stray bullets and unseen enemies, but he didn't mention that.

John stopped when they reached the cafe, holding the door open for Sherlock and following behind. John walked up to the counter, ordering a hot Italian sandwich for himself and then glancing over at Sherlock, waiting for him to order. "You have to eat something," he said, nudging him in the ribs.

Sherlock sighed, ordering the same, not even paying much attention to what it was John had ordered. "Happy?" he asked as they moved over to a table. He sank down into one side of the booth, pulling out his phone again. 

_Anything yet? SH_

_It's been half an hour. MH_

_I know. SH_

Sherlock sighed, looking up at John as he sat _._

_Nothing on his parents just yet. His sister on the other hand was taken from auction and is currently living in London with her bondmate. Information indicates that it was a situation much like your own, the right Alpha. I'll send her contact info. MH_

Sherlock smiled broadly; he'd done some of it then. He looked up at John, pocketing his phone.

"What are you up to?" John asked, raising his eyebrow at Sherlock, who was smiling like a cat that had a mouse in its paws. "You keep texting someone. Your brother?" John folded his hands, resting his chin on them and staring expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "Just checking up on something," Sherlock said with a smile. He looked up at John, wondering how to tell him.

Sherlock swallowed. "I... I have some news," he said. "And it's... it's good," he said. "You… saved me from that place. The auction that is, and I guess I really lucked out," he started. "And... it would seem that your sister did as well," he said quietly. "Recently enough, and according to the text Mycroft just sent me..." he said, picking up his phone as it went off. "Recently gone through substance abuse program, but living here in London," he looked up at John again. "Her last name is different now – she took her Alpha's – Stone. Harriet Stone," he said.

John froze, staring at Sherlock with his mouth slightly agape. "I... she... what?" John couldn't name any of the emotions that he felt churning through him, except perhaps relief that his sister was alive.

"Oh, my god," John breathed, dropping his head in his hands to hide his tears. "Thank you," he whispered, reaching out for one of Sherlock's hands. "Christ. Thank you."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand a little, a careful smile tugging at his mouth. "You don't have to thank me, John," he said quietly. "Mycroft is still looking for your parents... but I thought, maybe you'd want to see her. Before..." he said, not finishing his sentence. John deserved to know that all his family was safe and waiting for him. Give him more of a reason to come home.

John shook his head, though he continued to smile at Sherlock. "I don't want to see her. I mean, I do, but... I don't want to spend an hour with her and then have to tell her..." he cleared his throat and looked down at the table, "well, you know."

Sherlock looked down. "I thought... that you'd want to." he said quietly. It wasn't fair. He only got a week. Why did he have to be the only one left behind? "It's your decision I guess."

John reached over, tilting up Sherlock's chin until their eyes met. "Maybe I'll call her. Do you think Mycroft can get a number? Mobile number, preferably." John gave a small smile, running his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. "And thank you again. Even if my parents... Harry is enough. Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "He's sending me the information later," he said. "I would have thought that you'd want to see her. And your sister in law, that's something people want to do right? Meet them?" he asked, having met his through coincidence. "I can give you the number... and the address or whatever if you wanted to write or... or visit," he said, shrugging a little. 

John cocked his head, his brow furrowing as he watched Sherlock. "You really want me to go see her. How come?" he asked quietly. He didn't want to go, wanted nothing of it until he got back. It was going to be hard enough missing Sherlock; he didn't want to have a sister to miss on top of it.

Sherlock shook his head. "Isn't it normal to want to see someone after they'd been taken away?" he asked, shrugging. "Even my brother came and saw me, and that's saying something. Granted I was unconscious, but still," he said. "It's your choice, see her, don't see her, I don't care," he said. "I just wanted them found for you," he said, nodding at the waitress when she brought by their sandwiches. 

John could tell that there was something else, but he didn't push. He stared down at his sandwich, poking it with his finger. He sighed and pushed the food away, resting his head in his hands.

"Let me know when you have her contact information," John murmured, his voice slightly muffled by his palms. He pushed away from the table, mumbling something about the bathroom as he made his way through the cafe.

Sherlock nodded quietly, watching John get up. He almost followed him, but figured he'd probably done enough. It was supposed to make John happy that he could know where his sister was. That's why he'd told Mycroft to find them, why he'd been happy to find out... because he wanted John to feel better, not worse. It was clear that he wasn't so good at this kind of thing.

Sherlock leant back in the booth, picking a little at his healing scabs on his wrist as he thought.

***

John stood with his hands braced on either side of the sink, the water pouring from the faucet. He felt sick, the sudden reality of what was happening crashing in around him. He was being deployed in a week, leaving behind Sherlock and now a sister he had accepted as dead. Now she might be the one needing to attend the funeral of a sibling she hadn't ever expected to see again.

John shivered, splashing water on his face. He shook his head fiercely.  _Can't think like that_. After casting a glare at his reflection in the mirror, he left the bathroom and retook his seat across from Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring down at his wrists, though he wasn't really looking at them. He kept thinking about what he could have done differently, fingers still picking, much how he would pluck at his violin. His hands needed to be busy when he thought, unless he was lying down. His wrist was bleeding a little, and he didn't notice when John finally sat down again.

"Sherlock." John cleared his throat, directing the Omega's attention to him. "Stop picking at your wrist, please. You're making it bleed."

Sherlock blinked a few times when he heard his name for the second time. His gaze focused on his wrist, and he reached up and pressed a napkin to it.

John dropped his eyes to the table, then flicked them back up at Sherlock. "I'm ready to go home," he murmured. "You?" Sherlock was obviously distracted and needing to think, and John felt he could use with the warmth of the hearth.

Sherlock looked at John and shook his head. "You haven't eaten yet," he said steadily. 

John shrugged, indifferent. "Not hungry. I'll bring it home and eat it later." He flagged down the waitress, asking for two boxes for their sandwiches.

"I just want to go home and sit in my chair with a fire going. I'd like to hold you, but I'm pretty sure you're going to go into your mind again here soon." John sighed lightly, thanking the waitress when she returned with the boxes and the tab.

"You're the one that suggested food in the first place," Sherlock said quietly as John boxed up their sandwiches. "I'm sorry if I upset you, really. You can do what you want with the information, really I won't mind either way," he said, still holding the napkin to his wrist.

John sighed quietly, setting the boxes aside and looking up at the Omega. "You didn't upset me, Sherlock," he promised, reaching out to stroke his fingertips over his cheek. "I upset myself; it's fine. I just want to go home is all."

Sherlock nodded, sliding out of the booth carefully and scooping up the boxes. He peeled the napkin off his wrist and tossed it in a bin as he headed towards the door. He hadn't even had the chance to take off his coat, so he stepped outside, waiting on the pavement for John.

John wasn't far behind, tugging on his jacket. He immediately walked to the edge of the street, holding up his hand for a cab. He slid in when one pulled up, giving their address when Sherlock was beside him.

John pulled Sherlock closer with an arm around his hip, resting his head on the Omega's shoulder and gently looking at the picked scab on his wrist.

"S'fine," Sherlock murmured quietly, leaning his head on top of John's. He didn't want the rest of their time together to be so miserable. John made it seem like he thought he wasn't coming back, and that wasn't something he needed to be thinking about. Not at all. Because if John thought he was going to die then he might get careless, might not fight. Then he really wouldn’t come back. 

John bit his lip, closing his eyes as they progressed toward home. "It looks like it still hurts," he murmured, linking his fingers with Sherlock's and letting their hands rest on Sherlock's thigh. He let out a small sigh, squeezing Sherlock's hand until his own shook.

"We're having hot chocolate when we get home," John declared, already having made up his mind. "Might even spike it with peppermint schnapps or something."

Sherlock shrugged a little; it did hurt a bit, but he didn't mind. "I'm not of age yet... isn't that one of those law things?" he murmured quietly.

Sherlock sighed. "It won't... it won't help John," he said quietly. "It won't make it stop hurting, whatever it is," he said.

John knew it wouldn't help, but it would make him feel better. "I don't think anyone would mind if you have a little bit of alcohol in your hot chocolate," he muttered, but he was already deterred from the idea.

"You knew you'd be going and would have been fine going if not for leaving me but... it's fine. I'm not going anywhere, so... so please don't be so worried?" Sherlock asked.

"I know. I know you're going to be here. I just keep thinking that I haven't had enough time with you, and I just want to never go," John murmured, hating himself for saying it. "Damn the war, I just want to be with you."

"And you will be," Sherlock murmured quietly. He sat up a little, shifting a little uncomfortably. He set down the boxes and shrugged off his coat, feeling too warm suddenly. He sighed, and cracked the window of the cab. "It feel warm to you?" he asked, looking at John and giving his hand a small squeeze.

"It's November," John said plainly, as if that explained everything. He narrowed his eyes, leaning up and setting his hand on Sherlock's forehead. "You're running a fever. Probably from infection." John switched over to caretaker mode, leaning over to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "We'll be home in a bit, and then I want you to put your pyjama bottoms on and crawl into bed, alright?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, touching his incision. It stung a little, but didn't hurt like it had. He furrowed his brow a little, leaning his head against the glass of the window. The cool air from the window hit his warm face and he hummed a little.

Sherlock blinked a few times, sitting bolt upright in the cab, his flushed face worried, eyes wide. He looked at the driver, and then to John. "J-John did... did you ever get those... suppressants?" he asked quietly, worried. What if he hadn't? Sherlock's heart sped up at the thought.

John turned to Sherlock, his eyes wide.  _Oh. Oh hell._

"No," John breathed, shaking his head slowly. He ran his hand down his face, casting a worried look at Sherlock. "I'll be fine. We'll be fine, I promise. I can handle it." He ran his hands gently through Sherlock's hair, recognising the growing symptoms now that Sherlock had pointed it out. The Omega was definitely starting his heat cycle.

Sherlock let out a breath. He didn't want this to happen, he hated heats. His face twisted a little, a worried frown tugging at his face as he wrapped his arms around himself. "Said you'd get them..." he said, not accusing, just restating. He swallowed, glancing out the window. He saw the cab driver looking at him in the rear view mirror and he tensed a little.

As soon as the cab pulled up to the flat, Sherlock tore out of it, barely remembering his coat, and abandoning the food all together. He dashed up into the flat, dropping his coat unceremoniously onto the floor, and moved into the bathroom, not sure if he'd be sick or not. He almost felt like it. 

John paid the driver and scooped up the abandoned food, following Sherlock up into the flat. The scent that Sherlock's body was giving off permeated the space, but John forced his reactions down, putting the sandwiches in the fridge and walking over to pick up Sherlock's coat and hang it on the door.

"Sherlock?" John called, walking towards the bathroom. "You okay?"

Sherlock's first instinct was to slam the door shut and lock it, quickly locking the other. He was terrified – his first heat had been fear of the unknown, but every one since... he shuddered. His knee-jerk reaction was to hide away; they more or less made the Omegas lock themselves up, then taunted them from the other side of the doors, even when they were begging for them to come inside.

Sherlock paced the bathroom, still feeling warm. He ruffled his hair, tugging off his shirt before he sweated through it.

John leant against the doorframe, staring down at the knob for a long moment before he spoke. "I'm going to go sit in the living room. You're allowed to have the bedroom. Actually, I want you to. Call me if you need anything," he said, leaving the hall before his biological reactions pushed him to do or say something stupid.

Sherlock took a cup and filled it with water, drinking it down quickly before doing so again. He paced a little more and finally just stripped down to take a cool shower, which felt amazing, almost helping really. When he got out he let out a breath, leaning against the door to the hallway, listening.

"John?" Sherlock called, his hand pressed against the wood. "John, I'm sorry... I'm sorry if it's hard, but I... I don't want to be alone," he said quietly, feeling miserable. This would eat up two of their days at least. And he didn't want to stay away from John that long. 

John looked up from his lap, glancing down the hall for a long moment before he rose to his feet. "Sherlock? May as well open up, there's no point in spending your heat in an uncomfortable place like the bathroom."

John waited until he heard the lock click and then pushed open the door, finding Sherlock standing just inside of the threshold. He reached out for the Omega, wrapping his arm around his feverish skin and guiding him into the bedroom and over to the bed.

Sherlock stepped back from the door, wrapped in a towel, though that was quickly becoming too warm. He looked at John timidly, stopping himself from wrapping his arms around him. He tensed a little when John put an arm around him, and he shuffled into the bedroom, looking around. John's scent was all around the room, and it was amazing, and he looked at the bed.

"I'll just make a mess," he said, knowing soon enough that would happen, and then what would John do? He looked at him; he was going to make John uncomfortable too, there wasn't any point in them both suffering. "I can... send for Mycroft... he'd send a car to pick me up, I don't want... I don't want you uncomfortable, John. I'm sorry. I'm ruining everything," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," John chided gently, pushing Sherlock lightly onto the bed. "May as well take the towel off, too; I know that's gotta be getting hot for you already."

John took a seat at the head of the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and shifted until he could rest Sherlock's head in his lap. He swallowed thickly, the Omega's scent filling the air around them and filtering into his nose, surrounding him in a sweet veil that he didn't want to leave. "And you're not ruining anything. Everything's fine, Sherlock, I promise."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, trembling slightly as he laid down, resting his head in John's lap, and curling close to him. The towel loosened and slid off him, and he was lying on it, curled up on his side.

"F-fine now... jus' going to get worse," Sherlock mumbled, weaving his fingers tightly into his hair, gripping handfuls of it. He remembered the jeers and threats and shivered. "I h-hate heats!" he whined, shaking still. 

Wordlessly, John took Sherlock's hands out of his hair, kissing them gently and holding them in one of his hands, carding his other through Sherlock's sweat-damp hair. His heart clenched for Sherlock, and he was grateful that he was a doctor, or it would most definitely be harder for him to withstand this.

"It's fine now, and it'll be fine later, too," John finally murmured. "I won't leave unless you want me to," he promised, closing his eyes for a moment to attempt to ignore his body and Sherlock's.

Sherlock sniffed quietly, shifting so he was snuggled closer to John. Christ, it felt amazing, so much better being close to someone. He'd forgotten how much it had helped having his mother with him, but it was different with an Alpha, with John. He relaxed a small bit, shifting again.

Sherlock started to feel a small bit of dampness around his legs and a little on the towel and flushed even more in embarrassment. Soon, though, he wouldn't care about that, and then all dignity would be out the window. He both wished John wasn't and would be there.

Sherlock whined a little, holding tighter to John as he shut his eyes, trying to ignore it, go into his head.

"Hey, don't," John murmured, tugging gently on Sherlock's hair to get his attention. "Don't run away from it. Then you'll always hate it." He stroked his hand from his hair down to his shoulders, rubbing gently over them. "Try to relax." All he wanted was to lie down beside him and kiss him until he relaxed, but he fought it, just holding Sherlock closer.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, dragging his eyes up to John. It felt so warm, and uncomfortable, though not as much as normal. Normally he was on floor in a room, and alone. He shook, wanting just to disappear.

Sherlock became slightly less tense as the hand moved over his shoulders, and he leant his damp hair into John's stomach, unable to help from nuzzling against the soft jumper that smelled like him. He let out another breath. "D-don't mind this knit... as much now," he said quietly, voice wavering slightly.

John smiled, though he tensed slightly at Sherlock's nuzzling. Not that he minded – god, he loved it – he just didn't want to lose control. "Yeah, it's pretty nice, isn't it?" he murmured, trailing his fingers farther down over Sherlock's back, rubbing small circles into his skin.

"You're alright, Sherlock. I've got you." John knew it was a ragged promise, and not one he was one hundred percent positive he could keep, but he said it anyway, knowing he would try his damnedest to make it true.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, then nodded a little, closing his eyes. He lay quietly for a little while, occasionally moving his head so his cheek brushed against John's jumper again. Eventually he dozed off a little, still shaking, a small whimper coming from him from time to time. 

John sat quietly, letting Sherlock sleep. He knew that heats lasted anywhere from two to five days, depending on the Omega, and that probably as soon as Sherlock awoke he would be begging and needy, his heat in full swing.

John continued to comb through Sherlock’s hair, murmuring soft, soothing things to him whenever he stirred in an attempt to get him to continue sleeping. He was going to want rest and be happy for the little he had got once he awoke.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I had a bad day today, and I just wanted to do this to get something out of it. So here's the next chapter. I don't know if this whole updating on Sunday thing is going to be consistent, but I'm doing it again today :)

Sherlock felt it as soon as he started to wake up a couple hours later, the horrible... empty feeling, almost like an itch, and almost painful by how much it felt like he needed it filled.

Sherlock whimpered, curling up around himself and pinning his hands under his arms. He wouldn't do it, he knew... _knew_  that it wouldn't fix it, and it was degrading, so he  _wouldn't_  do it. He bit his lip, his head still on John's lap. He was still there... John hadn't left him alone.

"I'm still here," John promised, noticing Sherlock had woken up. The heady scent of an Omega in full heat had started hitting him about ten minutes ago, and it wasn't getting better now that Sherlock was fully conscious. He reached out, taking Sherlock's hands into his own and stroking his knuckles. "I'm not leaving, you're fine." He dropped his head back against the headboard, the sudden throb of pain it gave him clearing his head for a moment.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, writhing a little, the towel likely a mess now. He was covered in sweat and hated it. "S'hot... sh-shower," he said shakily, pushing himself up. He knew John likely wanted a break; it had to be hard for him. He groaned as he sat up, dragging himself and the damp towel off the bed and quickly moved into the bathroom, shutting the door a little bit before he climbed into the shower. He was panting a little when he turned on the water, keeping it slightly cool, which felt nice against his skin.

John tried taking deep breaths, but that only made things worse. Sherlock's scent was still heavy in the room, and when he closed his eyes he could picture him in the shower perfectly. Groaning, he dropped down onto the bed, rolling onto his stomach to try to force down the erection that had hit him.

Sherlock sat down in the bottom of the tub, the curtain pulled closed as he curled up there. He tucked his hands back under his arms, reminding himself that he couldn't do it, nothing could, and he just had to wait it out. It would be worse if he tried anyway.

"Sherlock are you alright?" John called, still able to hear the shower running.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, looking in the direction of John's voice. "No point asking questions you already have the answer to," he mumbled. He wasn't okay, of course he wasn't. He felt a sickening want... need, and knew he couldn't have anything for it. There was nothing he had. No birth control for himself, no guarantee that John wouldn't leave two instead of one. He didn't want pups. And John forgot suppressants, which meant Sherlock was making him suffer as well. He knew there were 'morning after' options, but still... the only people to do that to him... he supposed he was afraid.

"Come back and lie down," John called, knowing it was going to be torturous for himself, but all he wanted was to make it easier on Sherlock. "Or I'll just come in there with you. You don't need to isolate yourself." He fisted his hand in the sheets, tempted by the idea of going in after Sherlock. But he was good at fighting down his biological urges – he had to be, as a doctor.

Sherlock didn't move from where he was, his nails pressing into his sides as he held his arms in place. He shifted in the tub, and then back again, not able to get comfortable. He groaned, his head smacking the tub as he tried to move again.

Sherlock swore, curling up small. At least he didn't feel as dirty as he always did, having to sit in a small room. In the shower at least his fluids went down the drain instead of dribbling onto the floor or bed or where ever he was whenever he moved.

John gave Sherlock a few minutes before he stood from the bed and walked into the bathroom, glad that Sherlock had left the door unlocked and partially open. He sat on the edge of the tub, reaching down and gently combing through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "You're alright, love," he promised, easily able to tell how distraught he was. "You don't need to avoid me."

Sherlock leant into the hand, unable to help it. He felt himself slipping though, and found it harder and harder to think and remember that they shouldn't, because... of pups. The thought was quickly snapped back though with the thought of morning after contraceptives and he curled tighter, almost feeling whiplash from the different thoughts.

The shower was still on, and Sherlock looked up at John. "You're going to get wet," he mumbled quietly, shivering a small bit.

John reached over and shut off the water before resuming gently petting Sherlock. "And you're going to catch a cold. I don't mind getting a little wet." He was watching a war wage across Sherlock's features, and he sighed quietly, reaching behind him for a towel and wrapping it around Sherlock's curled form. "Come on, let's go back to bed," he murmured, forcibly lifting Sherlock out of the tub and onto his feet.

It was hard to ignore the pheromones Sherlock was producing and what his body wanted, but John was managing. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's, tugging him back to bed.

Sherlock wrapped the towel shakily around himself, drying off some as he slowly was pulled back into their – when did he start thinking of it as that? – bed.

"Please, John..." Sherlock whined, sinking to the floor before he got to the bed, curling up. "Can't stand it... please... make it stop…" he begged, arms curling around himself. It was almost worse having someone there, because John could fix it, he could. Sherlock knew he could, and that part of himself that knew why it wasn't the best idea had fallen silent now. 

John knelt down beside Sherlock, settling his hand on his cheek and making their gazes connect. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment before he nodded minutely, taking Sherlock's hands and pulling him up into his arms.

"Do you trust me?" he asked quietly, nuzzling against Sherlock's collarbone and stroking his hand down his side. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Sherlock shivered a little, though he started to warm up quickly again now that the cool water was gone. The towel fell when John pulled him up to his feet, and Sherlock let out a shaky breath, his face so close to John's neck, and he breathed in his calming scent.

Sherlock nodded a small bit, his arms wrapping shakily around John. "Please..." he said again. In the back of his mind, quietly, he knew John would take care of him, and be able to get anything for after; John didn't want to leave Sherlock behind... he wouldn't want to leave behind pups as well. Sherlock nodded again, whimpering a little as he pressed himself closer to John, loving the Alpha’s arms around him.

John's intended hum came out more like a growl of possession, and he spun them around, backing Sherlock up until he was sitting on the bed. He stepped back, quickly stripping himself down and moving back into Sherlock's space. He lifted him up effortlessly, moving him gently back onto the bed and pushing his shoulders down, hovering over him.

Sherlock was a little startled by the quick movements, almost worried about his side and stitches when John lifted him, but they were fine.

"You're beautiful," John murmured, his Alpha coming out as he claimed Sherlock's lips, running his hand down his chest and abdomen.

Sherlock hummed when John's lips pressed against his, feeling John's hand move down his feverish skin. _Beautiful_... the word caught Sherlock off guard. Hardly though surely – he was still thinner than he should be, pale and... well, Sherlock.

John pulled back, crawling down Sherlock's body until he was hovering between his thighs, acting mostly on instinct. "Let's just take the edge off," he breathed before taking Sherlock into his mouth.

Sherlock blinked a few times when John moved down, sucking in a sharp breath when his mouth wrapped around Sherlock's length. He tensed a bit, then hummed again, eyes closing a small bit as he writhed a small bit on the bed. It wasn't what his body wanted... but it felt amazing nonetheless, helped some too. 

John steadied Sherlock with his hands, keeping his hips pressed to the bed so that John remained in control of what was going on. He took Sherlock deeper, humming around him so that he could feel the vibrations. Trailing his hand down Sherlock's hip and between his thighs, John slowly pressed his finger against Sherlock's entrance, tracing the rim before slowly pushing in. 

_Oh, Christ._

Another low growl pushed its way out of John’s chest as he pushed another finger into the Omega's leaking hole, gently working him open.

A moan escaped Sherlock, and he tried to press down against John's hand. 

 _Yes... please yes..._  

It wasn't enough, wouldn't reach. His body moved on its own though, trying in vain for more. He hummed, his hands balling up in the bedding, tilting his head back into the pillow, noises escaping him the whole while.

John would have smiled if he hadn't been so preoccupied; the noises Sherlock was making were just too perfect. He pushed a third finger in, moving all of them as deep as he could. All he was trying to do right now was get Sherlock off, knowing he would have quite a few more rounds in him before his heat was over. Sherlock was wound up and tense, and John knew he could fix that.

John hollowed his cheeks and angled his fingers, flicking over Sherlock's prostate and then forcibly rubbing it.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, pulling at the blanket a bit. His eyes were squeezed shut and he tried to rut against the fingers in him more. He groaned, jerking a little as he felt a small release, head going  slightly fuzzy for a moment before he relaxed into the bed, panting. "I.... you...." he hummed, trying to catch his breath. It felt better now, though he still felt empty, the itch not scratched. An improvement though... and John had done that. "Th...thank you..." he said quietly, dragging his eyes open lazily and looking at John.

John swallowed and licked his lips, crawling up Sherlock's body, kissing and nipping every inch that he could reach. He didn't reply except to hum low in his chest, scraping his teeth across one of Sherlock's nipples.

"You're not done yet," John murmured, biting at the pulse point on Sherlock's neck as he lined up with the Omega's entrance, pushing against it just a little. "Are you alright with this?" he managed to ask, forcing himself to wait for Sherlock's consent.

Sherlock hummed as he felt John's lips move up his body. He took a breath when John bit him a little harder, not enough for make him his bondmate, but enough to get more of Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock looked up at John, feeling him press against him. He nodded, wrapping his arms around John, clinging onto him. "Yes... please, I want you to. I... need it..." he breathed, pulling John's face up and looking at him. His pupils were blown wide, somewhat manic in his heat, but he looked intently at John before crushing his mouth against John's greedily.

John groaned, kissing Sherlock back fiercely, exploring his mouth with his tongue. God, his eyes, with the pupils blown wide, had been sexy as hell, giving John no doubt of how much Sherlock was aching for this.

John pushed in slowly while keeping their lips connected, sucking on Sherlock's lower lip as he pushed in inch by inch, letting Sherlock take his time adjusting. He paused, giving Sherlock a moment to catch his breath before starting to thrust, keeping the movements long and slow, his instinct to not hurt the Omega overpowering his own Alpha need to dominate and possess.

Sherlock's frantic kissing was cut off by the moan that tore out of him as John pressed into him, the delightful burn of him stretching was perfect. He rocked a fraction in rhythm of John's movements, trying to press more onto him. It was so close… so close to being reached.

Sherlock whined, his fingers digging into the back of John's neck and shoulder.

This was... nothing at all like Sherlock thought it'd be. He'd had sex before certainly, but it was never his choice, and it had hurt most of the time. This wasn't just that though, this was something he needed, and John cared enough for him to do it, and was John, and was perfect. He pressed kisses to John's jaw and neck between his panting breaths. 

_Closer... closer..._

John quickened his pace when Sherlock started moving, making it fairly obvious that he could handle more. He buried his face in Sherlock's neck, inhaling strong gulps of his scent with every breath, the heady scent ripping a growl from him and pushing his thrusts harder, deeper. He only slowed when he felt his knot swelling, and it took all of his focus to lift his head and meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Do you want it?" John asked, his voice deep and husky with lust and need. He combed through Sherlock's hair, nearly drowning in his eyes.

Sherlock realised the noise he heard was coming from him, incoherent mutterings and moans. His legs had wrapped up and around John slightly, holding him there with his shaky limbs. He blinked a few times to focus his eyes on John's, and he could feel it, so close... He nodded, breath hitching a little. "P-please... John, please yes..." he panted, eyes desperate.

John grinned, leaning down to nip and bite along Sherlock's jaw and down his neck, his thrusts resuming. He buried his knot in Sherlock, growling low and biting his own lip to keep from biting Sherlock.

Reaching in between them, John quickly stroked Sherlock's length, keeping the motion of his hand the same as the quick, shorts thrusts he was barely managing with his knot inside of the Omega. "Come on, love," he whispered, nipping at Sherlock's ear. "Come for me."

Sherlock's breaths were coming in short bursts, and he moaned loudly as he felt John's knot swell... so close... he felt a hand close around him and he gasped. His back arched a small bit, head pressing back into the pillow, seeing white as he came, feeling his body tighten around John's knot, holding it there. 

 _Finally..._  he let out a huff of air, falling limp on the bed, trembling a little, finally... _finally_  for the first time in his life, it had gone away and it was.... indescribable. He lay there boneless, John atop him; neither of them would be able to move for a bit. He swallowed, still trying to catch his breath, eyes still closed.

John had released at nearly the same time Sherlock had, buried deep in the Omega and unable to pull out. He nuzzled against Sherlock's neck, panting just as hard as he was.

"Are you alright?" John asked quietly, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist and rolling them over. He carded his hand through Sherlock's hair, gently moving it away from his forehead only to have it flop back in place. His other hand moved down Sherlock's back, tracing his spine until it settled on the small of his back, the slight dip in his spinal column.

Sherlock nodded dazedly, wincing some as they rolled as he settled onto his side. It was a little awkward, but he didn't dare want to try and move from the position. He hummed as his breath started to slow, and he opened his eyes a crack to look at John. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"’m glad... it was you," Sherlock murmured. "That none of them... came in the room, when I begged. ‘m glad... was you," he said again, eyes closing a small bit. "’m love you..." he said, feeling... well, almost high, it felt so amazing.

"I love you, too," John murmured, smiling to himself. He pressed soft kisses over Sherlock's forehead, cheeks, down his nose, and settling on his lips. "God, I love you," he breathed, his lips brushing over Sherlock's. He closed his eyes, resting their foreheads together, just breathing in the same air for a while.

After a short collection of minutes, John's knot receded and he pulled out, keeping his arm around Sherlock's waist to continue holding him close. "You can rest if you like. I'll still be here when you wake up," he promised, ruffling Sherlock's damp hair.

Sherlock hummed a little, shifting a small bit after John pulled out. He swallowed, blinking his eyes open. "Should... should both eat. Drink something... read 'bout it... after I presented," he murmured; they hadn't even eaten today.

Sherlock swallowed again, thinking, or trying too. "Mm can call Mycroft... a-ask for... something for... this." he said, gesturing between them. "Don't know... how long after can still take them, to work," he said, sighing softly.

John nuzzled against Sherlock's collarbone. "Twenty-four hours," he murmured in response to Sherlock's mumbled thoughts. "I can always run and get them, if you're alright by yourself for a bit."

John nipped and laved lightly against Sherlock's neck, humming at how he tasted. "I can make us something. Salad with broiled chicken sound good?" he asked, leaning back to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, nuzzling close to him. It almost felt like it was gone now, his heat, leaving behind something so... wonderful. He felt, and it wasn't hard to feel these things like this.

"Mm don' want you gone that long. The sandwiches from the cafe... jus' bring them cold," Sherlock murmured, his fingers tracing through some of the thin, short, blond hair on John's chest. 

John chuckled, claiming Sherlock's lips in a chaste kiss before he rolled out of bed. "Alright. You text Mycroft and I'll go get us some food," he promised, quickly pulling on some loose jeans and a t-shirt. He left the room before he could be tempted to crawl back in bed with Sherlock, grabbing his wallet and keys as he trotted from the flat.

***

Sherlock was confused when John got dressed, hearing his keys get taken up. He supposed he could have thought about it, but then he for once didn't really feel like thinking too much.

Sherlock sighed. John could get the pills, but then, he didn't want John to leave to have to go all the way to the hospital. He sighed again, rolling over and picked up his phone. 

_Need to you bring something for me. SH_

_What is it? MH_

_I'm having my heat cycle and I need some morning contraceptive. SH_

_I don't take pleasure in asking you, but I'm not exactly in a state to be able and get them myself. Please. SH_

_[Delayed] I'll have it there this evening. MH_

***

Speedy's was mostly empty, and John got them both cold turkey and ham sandwiches in quick order. He smiled stupidly to himself as he bounded back up the stairs, grabbing two glasses of water from the kitchen before carrying them and the sandwiches back into the bedroom.

Sherlock set his phone aside, missing John already by the time he came back in. He smiled. "You didn't have to leave and get more... we had the left overs," he said, sitting up a little. "It's fine... we'll have them for later," he said, reaching out for John, wanting him close again. 

"To be completely honest, I had forgotten about them," John admitted, sitting down on his side of the bed to lean against the headboard. "But you're right, we can have those later. May as well sit up," he suggested, poking Sherlock playfully in the side. He reached for his water, taking a sip as he dug the sandwiches out of the bag, setting them on the mattress.

Sherlock sighed, pushing himself to sit up more. He looked down at himself, then sighed, rolling off the bed slowly.

"I need to wash up," Sherlock said, stumbling into the bathroom and wiping himself down a little. His legs were a bit wobbly, and his skin still a bit feverish; it wasn't over at all. But then, part of him didn't want it to be yet.

Sherlock moved into the bedroom when he was cleaned off, not even noticing that he was still undressed – it was too warm for clothes anyway. He sat down and lifted one of the sandwiches, tearing into it, not sure where the appetite came from. 

John handed Sherlock his water, glad he was eating but knowing he needed to stay hydrated as well.

"What did your brother say?" John asked, biting into his own sandwich and chewing it steadily. He reached out unconsciously with one hand, idly running his fingers up Sherlock's thigh and waist to his shoulders and then his hair. Sherlock was perfect, absolutely perfect, even with how skinny he was. John couldn't think of anyone more beautiful.

Sherlock took a break from the sandwich and took the water, drinking down half the glass. He swallowed, glancing over at John. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he felt John's fingers trace up him.

"He'll have them delivered today," Sherlock murmured, going a little pink... well pinker than he already was with his heat-flushed skin.

Sherlock polished off the sandwich quickly and settled back to lay down next to John. His jeans felt coarse against his sensitive skin, but he pressed closer to John regardless.

John finished his sandwich quickly, squirming his way out of Sherlock's hold so that he could stand and take off his clothes. When he had tossed them over by the chest of drawers, he crawled back into bed, lying down beside Sherlock and holding him close. "You should sleep," he murmured, kissing him lightly and ghosting his fingers over his shoulders.

"Hmmm." Sherlock hummed, nuzzling close to John, his eyes closing on their own. "Can't... Mycroft sending something," he mumbled drowsily. "Have to pick it up…. Jus' going to leave it on the steps 'nd ring the bell. Doesn't do social calls... even if I wasn't... like this," he murmured.

"I can get it, love," John murmured, soothingly massaging Sherlock's scalp. "You sleep, you need it." He rubbed his palm in calming circles over the expanse of the Omega's back, listening as his breathing steadied and he finally fell asleep.

Sherlock hummed a little, falling asleep quickly despite saying he wouldn't.

John smiled to himself, staring at the wall opposite him, sharing Sherlock's warmth, until the bell rang downstairs. Sighing quietly, John slid out of bed again, careful not to disturb Sherlock, and slipped on the jeans again before padding from the room.

Sherlock barely heard a ringing noise, but didn't move from where he was. He rolled over, feeling the other side of the bed.

Sherlock dragged his eyes open, seeing the empty bed. "Mm... John?" he called drowsily, looking around for him. "John?" Missing him already, he wanted him close...

"It's alright, Sherlock," John called ahead of him as he made his way into the flat, locking up behind him with the bottle of "morning after" pills in his hand.

John pushed his way into the bedroom, smiling softly at Sherlock, taking in his adorably rumpled hair and slightly flushed skin. He lobbed the bottle toward him, making sure it would hit the mattress if Sherlock decided he didn't want to catch it.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, reaching out to grab the pills but missed.

After stripping out of his jeans, John again joined Sherlock on the bed, kissing his bare shoulder affectionately.

Sherlock leant back against John when he laid next to him. He picked up the pills, looking at them. He let out a breath, part of him wondering what that would be like... having something inside of him, part of him and part of someone else – part of John.

Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head a little; that was just the heat talking. It was a biological response; the heats were there to have Omegas reproduce.

Sherlock reached out quickly for the glass of water on the bedside table, tugging out a pill and swallowing it quickly before he changed his mind, or rather before his body changed it for him.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, nuzzling against the back of his neck. "You're alright, love," he murmured, kissing his heated skin. "We can have pups when I get back, if you want to," he whispered, nipping at the skin behind Sherlock's ear. "Just as soon as I bond with you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, setting the bottle down on the table and rolling over to snuggle against John's chest. He swallowed again. "S'just the heat... ‘m fine," he mumbled quietly. "My body wants them... s'what this is all for, making pups. Biological," he explained quietly.

Sherlock swallowed again, humming. He started to doze off again, needing more sleep before another wave hit, and who knew when that would happen?

Sherlock sighed. "When you get back... yes," he murmured drowsily, already falling asleep again.

"I know, Sherlock," John whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair. "I know." He rubbed his hand down Sherlock's back even after he had fallen asleep, staring at the wall.

Thoughts of the war, of leaving Sherlock, swarmed John’s mind, and he chased them away with images of coming home safe, of Sherlock pregnant and caring for their pups, who all hopefully had Sherlock's curls. He smiled to himself, relaxing against Sherlock and closing his eyes, eventually drifting off to sleep.

Sherlock slept fairly soundly, snuggling closer to John. He woke up a few hours later, feeling warm again. He shifted on the bed, the familiar ache building again. Five hours, not bad for a gap he supposed; he'd never had a break from a heat before, and it was nice.

Sherlock looked up, seeing John, and placed his warm hand on his face. He realised that it was early morning now, officially Saturday, six days left. With any luck by the end of the day his heat would be over, and they would have their time. 

John turned his head into the warm hand on his cheek, nuzzling against it for a moment before dragging himself from sleep. "Hello," he murmured, smiling kindly at Sherlock and kissing his forehead.

Sherlock’s skin was warmer and his scent was stronger, immediately bringing out a low groan in John. "Time for round two, I'm guessing?" John asked, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and down his side – avoiding his incision – to rest on his hip.

Sherlock hummed, moving his hand down to cover John's hand. "Can wait... little bit," he murmured. "Not so bad right now..." he said, looking at John and smiling a small bit.

"’m going to miss you," Sherlock said. "This... but, worth it... you'll come back," he said quietly. "Know you will..."

John's chest constricted, and he pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, closing his eyes tightly. "I'm going to miss you too," he breathed, turning his hand over so that he could link their fingers together. "I'm going to miss you so much. But I'm coming back. Of course I'm coming back." He drew away, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "We'll be okay."

Sherlock nodded, staying close to John. He hummed a little, pressing his lips to John's chest, and then up his neck. "Love you..." he said, knowing that he wouldn't normally say it, he had trouble with those things, but he felt it. He knew he did. He leant over and was lying half on John’s chest, taking up his lips in his. 

John didn't reply, kissing Sherlock back for all he was worth, hoping to convey more than he could put into words. He ran his hands all over Sherlock's body, skimming over the silk of his skin before tangling in his hair. He rolled them over, trapping Sherlock beneath him. His lips left Sherlock's and travelled down his neck to his collarbone, pausing at his pulse for a moment before continuing.

Sherlock hummed, his hands moving to John's back, feeling his muscles flex under the skin as he held himself up over Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted his body slightly, his ankles hooking behind John's knees, his own knees hugging John's hips a little. He shivered as John's mouth moved down to his chest.

John made a low, possessive noise in his chest, rolling his tongue over Sherlock's nipple and grazing his teeth across it. He nipped the sensitive skin before sucking it between his lips. He braced his weight with one hand, sliding his other down Sherlock's side, hooking behind his thigh and hitching it up higher. He pressed open-mouthed kisses across Sherlock's chest, giving equal attention to his other nipple and then moving his lips down, grazing his teeth over Sherlock's ribs.

"You're gorgeous," John murmured huskily, gazing up at Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed, a low moan rising from him as John gave such careful attention to his nipples. God, he'd never thought that could feel so amazing. He shuddered, looking down at John at the comment. He blinked once, looking at him fondly with a dazed smile.

"Mm love you... perfect," Sherlock breathed, resting his head back onto the bed. His hips shifted up a fraction, bucking slightly up against John.

"Roll over," John commanded, leaning back and guiding Sherlock onto his stomach, lifting his hips in the air and spreading his knees. "So beautiful," he murmured, leaning over Sherlock's back to press bites across his shoulders and down his side.

Sherlock slowly rolled over with John guiding him, and pushed himself up a little, looking over his shoulder at John, humming at the warmth pressed to his back.

John’s hand reached between them, and he slowly sank two fingers into Sherlock, stretching him open with his mouth hot on the Omega's back.

Sherlock moaned lightly when John pressed a couple fingers into him, still mostly stretched from before, so it felt easier now. He tilted back onto his hand more, a small moan escaping him.

"Now... please, just… now. ‘m ready," Sherlock begged quietly.

John growled possessively, moving until he was pressed up against Sherlock. He pushed into him in one long thrust, snapping his hips a little towards the end.

John wasted no time, moving his hips in a quick, sharp rhythm, leaning down to link his hand with Sherlock's. "I've got you," he murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was pushed forward by the force John pushed against him, his arms giving out a bit and his head fell to the pillow. He felt John's fingers twine together with his, and he pushed himself back up, and then back more onto John with a groan, his eyes closed as he nodded, rocking with each of John's movements. 

John snapped his hips faster, tightening his hand around Sherlock's and running his free hand along his side, smoothing over his chest. He pressed Sherlock against himself, kissing and nuzzling the back of his neck, nipping and sucking on the spot that he would eventually mark.

"You're mine," John groaned, punctuated with a roll of his hips that pressed against Sherlock's prostate.

A small cry escaped Sherlock, more of pleasure than anything else, and he nodded weakly. His knees were shaking, along with his whole body, really. He moaned, pressing harshly back against John, feeling himself already close to coming, but he couldn't yet... not yet, he  _needed_ it first. "Please John... god, please..." he begged.

John grinned at how close Sherlock was, because of  _him_. Sherlock was his, definitely his. He buried his fingers in the Omega's hair, pounding into Sherlock until his rapidly swelling knot was buried in him. He moved his hand, stroking Sherlock's length until he broke apart, shaking and clenching around John, who joined him with a low moan, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's shoulders.

"Christ," John whispered shakily, holding Sherlock tightly against him as he moved them onto their sides, spooning up behind Sherlock.

Sherlock's vision went white again when he felt John finish, his knot swelling amazingly in the right spot. He was shaking more now, going limp, and was thankful for John's arm around him as they rolled to the side.

Sherlock's head was spinning and he was devoid of thought as he caught his breath. He looked down at the duvet and let out a breath. "We... we'll have to change that..." he said, nuzzling his head back against John's shoulder, a lazy smile on his face. He sighed, reaching his left arm back to somewhat hold John, his hand pressed to his lower back, fingers brushing just over the top of his arse. 

John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, playfully nipping at one of his tendons. "We'll get to that eventually," he murmured, licking and kissing along Sherlock's pale skin. He pressed his hand against Sherlock's chest, lightly running his fingers over one of Sherlock's nipples. He gave a kiss to Sherlock's temple, twining their legs together as they waited for his knot to recede. 

Sherlock sighed, nodding gently. He reached up his hand and covered one of John's on his chest, tracing lines onto the back of it with his fingers.

Sherlock sighed, slowly thinking. "Might... might not happen again," he murmured quietly. He shifted a little, pressing back more against John. "Most times my heat only lasts two days. But that's without any of this, no relief or release," he said with a contented sigh. 

"That your way of saying 'thank you'?" John asked, keeping himself close to Sherlock and closing his eyes, a soft breath escaping him.

Sherlock shook his head. "Mm can't thank you enough for this John…. this was..." he was at a loss of words. He'd been alone for it for years, and it had been torture, but this... was perfect.

"I love you," John whispered, nuzzling against Sherlock's hair, lazily tracing patterns over his chest. "And that's not just the post-coital endorphins talking," he promised, a chuckle lifting his tone. "You're beautiful and intelligent and opinionated and I love you so much."

"Mm love you too," Sherlock murmured. "Know it... jus' hard for me normally. Emotions aren't my area," he murmured quietly.

"I've noticed," John commented gently, running his fingers up to Sherlock's shoulder.

John felt his knot receding and pulled out slowly, placing a multitude of soft kisses to the back of Sherlock's neck. "Come on, let's go get cleaned up," he murmured, pushing up from the bed and holding his hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed, rolling onto his back when John had moved. He groaned, trying to sit up a little and just falling back to the bed.

"Don't know about you, but my legs don't really feel like working much after that," Sherlock mumbled, rolling onto his left side to face John. Still, he made himself sit up more on John's side of the bed, scooting over carefully to the edge of the bed.

John laughed, leaning down to capture Sherlock's lips, his hands steadying his shoulders. "That's fine," he murmured, "you're light enough." He put his hands under Sherlock's thighs and lifted him up, keeping their lips lightly connected. He carried Sherlock into the bathroom, turning on the water lukewarm to fill the tub.

Sherlock wasn't expecting that, but he smiled as John lifted him.

"Feet down," John instructed, letting Sherlock stand for a moment while he stepped into the tub, holding his hand out to help the Omega in as well.

Sherlock steadied himself, watching John climb into the bathtub. He blinked a couple times before carefully climbing into the bathtub and sitting in between John's legs, leaning back against his chest. He sighed as the warm water level rose.

Sherlock smiled, tilting his head up to look at John. "I know you'll be busy... but I can't help but wonder what it is I should do with everything," he murmured quietly. 

John turned off the water once the level was high enough, turning to nuzzle against Sherlock's temple. "What do you mean?" he asked, wondering if he was talking about keeping the flat once he was gone or if he was on a completely different subject.

Sherlock hummed softly, closing his eyes. "I mean what I should do. Never got a chance to go to uni," he mumbled. "Not sure I want to at this rate. S'pose I could, test out of courses," he said. "But I can't just sit here for two years," he mumbled, letting out a slow breath.

John reached for the soap, slowly starting to rub it over Sherlock's chest and abdomen, down his legs and then back up to his shoulders.

"Not sure uni would be the best option for you," John murmured, scooping water in his palms to help rinse Sherlock off. He thought for a moment, resting his chin on top of Sherlock's head and humming quietly, just holding him close.

"I don't know, you clicked with Molly, or at least you seemed at home down there. And the way you picked apart that corpse..." John shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe you should be a detective or something."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know, that was just observing. And I could always take courses online. Like I said, I could probably just test out of classes, I was going to do that anyway before all of _that_ happened," he murmured, sinking down into the water.

"I wouldn't want to work with the police though," Sherlock said. "Though I know I could; after all, Mycroft helped his Omega get that far without more discrimination," he said. 

"Well if you test out, it's going to take you, what? A week?" John ran his fingers over Sherlock's smooth skin. "I think you should do something with your magical powers of observation," he suggested. "Because you were brilliant. Utterly brilliant." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair, humming quietly to himself. 

"There's nothing magical about it I just... use my eyes," Sherlock said, smiling a little, though, at the compliment.

"I don't want hand-outs from my Alpha brother. I don't need them. Whatever I do, I want to do it myself. Get there on my own," Sherlock murmured, shifting a bit in the water and nuzzling close to John.

John beamed, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock. "Good, I'm glad." He let the silence wrap around them for a moment, just enjoying Sherlock beside him. "Maybe you should call Lestrade, then," he suggested. "Just... ask him to give you a call if he needs help. That way you can keep busy and go to uni and get a degree, and then work your way up by yourself."

Sherlock smiled a little, swallowing a bit though. "Bit odd though, my brother... I... he'll just tell my brother what I'm doing all the time," he said.

"I might have to have a talk with your brother about that," John murmured, half to himself. "You don't need a babysitter."

"Won't matter, he won't listen to you. Power's gone to his head, he won't listen to anyone now, where I'm concerned," Sherlock said with a sigh.

John smiled softly. "And I want you to keep practicing on your violin. I want you to send me audio segments by email if you can."

"Of course I will," Sherlock said quietly. "I couldn't play it for so long, I won't go without it now."

John tipped his head back, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. Time was slipping away. He could almost feel it. Six days left, and he had so much to do. "I don't want to go," he breathed, accidentally voicing his thoughts out loud.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open when he heard John say that. With a little bit of trouble he rolled over, laying on top of John in the water and pressing his lips to John's chest, and then up his neck before resting his head on his shoulder.

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "I know you don't, but it's something that has to be done. It'll be done, and then everything will be fine," he said quietly.

John sucked in a deep breath, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair and brushing his other hand down his back. He nodded mutely, unsure of exactly how he would be when he came back. He'd seen some soldiers and how physically torn up they were, and he'd heard stories of others who had gone mad from PTSD and offed themselves or others.

John shuddered to think of himself doing that and firmly corrected his thoughts. He would be fine. Two years in the desert and then home to Sherlock, and nothing else would happen.

Sherlock hummed a little, leaning into John's hand. He snuggled close to him, curling up on John's lap in the warm water. Eventually his eyes pulled shut, and he started to doze right there in the water, smiling contentedly.

"Alright, out you get," John chided with a small chuckle, nudging Sherlock in the sides. "Can't have you falling asleep in the water; you'll shrivel up like a prune." He leant forward, pulling up the drain and helping steady Sherlock as he stood and stepped out of the tub.

Sherlock groaned as John nudged him to his feet. He climbed out of the tub, sitting on the edge drowsily.

John quickly followed, handing Sherlock a towel and drying himself off, making his way back into the bedroom and stripping the bed, quickly covering it with more sheets and a spare duvet.

Sherlock took the towel, draping it around himself. He dried off most of the way, moving over to the toilet and sitting down for a little bit. He leant back against that, closing his eyes, just resting them.

John came back into the bathroom, smiling softly to himself and lifting Sherlock back up, carrying him to the freshly made bed. He set Sherlock down gently, crawling in after him and pulling the blanket up around the both of them. "Go to sleep, love. We can eat when you wake up," he murmured, holding Sherlock close against his chest.

Sherlock hummed a little when John lifted him, settling down onto the bed and curling up into John. "Mmkay..." he murmured quietly, already starting to drift off. He swallowed, one of his arms draping over John. He shifted slightly before his body relaxed completely and he felt himself lift away from the bed, slipping unconscious. 

John stayed up longer, just staring at the wall and listening to Sherlock breathe before he eventually fell asleep as well.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke up a handful of hours later, looking at the clock to see that it was well into the afternoon. Rubbing his eyes, he slipped from Sherlock's hold and walked quietly into the kitchen after pulling on a pair of track pants. He started water boiling in the kettle, moving sleepily around the kitchen and tidying it up as he waited for the water to heat.

Sherlock woke up to a cold spot on the bed. He blinked his eyes open, still feeling a bit warm and flushed. He didn't have that hollow feeling in his centre, though.

Sherlock still wanted to be closer to John though, still having the after-feelings of his heat, needing to be close to him still. He sat up slowly, dragging the sheet off the bed and draping it around himself and shuffling out into the kitchen, looking for John.

John looked up from where he had been staring down at his mug of tea, sitting in his chair in the living room. "I'm in here, Sherlock," he called, having heard the Omega moving around in the kitchen. "Grab yourself some tea or water, at least. You need to re-hydrate yourself."

Sherlock looked towards the living room, grabbing a glass of water and moving out into the towards John’s voice. He didn't even ask before climbing onto John's lap carefully and snuggling closer to him, sighing as he did so.

Sherlock felt so... content, never having this nice of a comedown from his heat before; he supposed by the evening it would be over. He almost wished it wouldn't be. "Hello, John," he murmured quietly, nuzzling against John's shoulder.

John smiled, setting his tea aside and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, snuggling him closer and holding him tight. "Hey, love," he replied, closing his eyes as he stroked his fingers up through Sherlock's thick curls, resting his cheek atop his head. "How are you?" he asked, breathing in his fading, thicker scent that accompanied his heat.

Sherlock hummed a little, smiling softly. "’m perfect," he said quietly, raising his eyes to look at John. "What about you?" he asked. He leant up and pressed a kiss to John's cheek, wanting to show affection while it was still so easy for him.

"I... I don't want you sad. We have time, and then we'll both just keep ourselves busy; two years will be nothing," Sherlock said. "Really." 

"Seven hundred thirty days," John replied, meeting Sherlock's gaze for a moment. "That's how long it's going to be, and every day I'm going to be missing you." He clenched his jaw, the muscle working for a moment. "Sorry. I know I shouldn't be so negative. I just can't get the image out of my head of what all of the veterans look like when they come back."

Sherlock looked up at him, he knew of course what it was John was talking about, and he knew in all likelihood that the John that left may not be the John that came back.

"We'll both probably change but... but I'll still be yours... won't I?" Sherlock asked. "And isn't that what's supposed to matter or something? They aren't you. And they don't have me and... I don't know. You're better," he said. "You can do better, and we'll take care of it when you're back."

John nodded, swallowing down the emotions building in his throat. "Alright," he breathed, his voice raw from holding back his tears. He smiled down at Sherlock, wrapping him up tighter and burying his face against his shoulder. "I've got you," he repeated Sherlock's words. "You won't let me become someone else."

"Mhm... I won't," Sherlock murmured quietly, nuzzling under John's chin.

John drew in a long breath, steadying himself before he drew back to look at Sherlock. "You're still running off of the heat's high, aren't you?" he asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock blinked when John pulled away, looking up at him. He couldn't help the dazed smile that pulled at his face. "Perhaps..." he said almost teasingly. He let out a soft breath, one hand reaching up and tracing John's face as if committing it to memory, which was ridiculous of course, as he already had done so.

John chuckled quietly at Sherlock's tone. He closed his eyes when Sherlock traced his features, happily sitting still and letting him do as he pleased. "I love you," he murmured as Sherlock's fingers brushed over his lips. "You have ensnared me," he teased, opening his eyes and leaning down to gently kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed a little, pressing into the kiss before pulling away and tracing over the Alpha's lips with his fingers. He let out a breath. "Other way around... you own me remember?" he said, before recalling that John had gone to the courts to get Sherlock ownership over himself. He didn't care; he was still John's.

Maybe... maybe sentiment wasn't bad.

John hummed, closing his eyes again. "Perhaps we own each other," he suggested, leaning into Sherlock's touch, nipping at his thumb. He smirked, parting his eyelids and rubbing his hand over Sherlock's back, the other smoothing over his thigh.

"I wonder if I should drop out of uni early," John mused, reaching up to trace Sherlock's lips. "Spend the rest of the week with you."

Sherlock met John's gaze. "They're sending you out before you can finish anyway... would you still be able to be a doctor when you come back?" he asked. He wanted John to still do what he loved, even if it did exhaust him. John wouldn't want to study when he came back; working would keep him busy, his mind focused.

John nodded. "Yeah. Most surgeries and hospitals tend to overlook an incompletion in uni if you served as a doctor. I guess if you're qualified enough for the government, you're qualified enough to perform operations."

John smiled, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "I'll go in tomorrow and say goodbye to everyone. Stop off at the bank first and pay Mike back," he mused, kissing Sherlock's nose.

"Can I come with you?" Sherlock asked, sitting up a little. "And I suppose I forgot to mention – Mycroft has already paid your friend back," he said quietly. He smiled a little. "Don't have to worry about it; after all he owed me, and you shouldn't have to owe your friend." 

John raised his eyebrows at the mention of what Mycroft had done, but he didn't argue with it. "I suppose you'll have to tell him thanks for me." He stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair, trying to commit its texture to memory. "And I thought you hated hospitals. You sure you want to be stuck inside one for a good hour or two?"

"Mm don't want to be away from you that long," Sherlock said, meaning for it to sound like a statement, but there was a slight whine to it. He had enough sense back to him to mentally curse his heat for that, but he didn't try and correct himself.

"Someone's greedy," John teased, but he didn't want to be away from Sherlock any longer than he absolutely had to, either. "Of course, you can come," he murmured, holding Sherlock closer to him for a moment.

"I'll just slip off to the morgue if it's too much," Sherlock said. "Maybe there'll be another corpse for me to 'pick at,' as you said," he murmured with a small smile.

"Let's go eat," John suggested after a while. "You've got to be hungry by now."

Sherlock sighed. "Everything else is just transport... it can wait," he muttered, stealing up John's lips again, his fingers twining up into his hair. He hummed a little, the sheet pooling around his waist as it slid off his shoulders.

John rolled his eyes, but as soon as Sherlock kissed him, that was all he was focused on. He cupped Sherlock's neck, his thumb tilting up his head for a better angle before it stroked along his jaw, feeling resistance in the small amount of stubble that had gathered there. His other hand smoothed down Sherlock's shoulder to his chest, pressing against him until he felt his heartbeat against his palm.

Sherlock smiled against John's mouth, humming again when he felt John's hand against his chest. He broke away a little, meeting John's eyes.

"I supposed I have to put on clothes, then. Can't go about a hospital wrapped in a bed sheet, be likely to end up in the mental ward. And I know they'd never let me out," Sherlock said, pushing himself up off of John's lap.

"You don't have to," John said, staring up at Sherlock and reaching over for his tea to sip it. "I'm not going until tomorrow morning. Most of the people I want to say goodbye to aren't there right now." He pushed himself to his feet, tugging at Sherlock's sheet. "But since you're up, let's eat."

Sherlock looked down at himself, then over to the clock, realising how late in the day it was. How had he not noticed? He sighed.

"Fine. If you're hungry," Sherlock murmured, turning to amble into the kitchen.

"Oh, don't act like eating is such a chore," John teased, nudging Sherlock before stepping around him and into the kitchen to pull out their sandwiches. "It's good for you." He set the sandwiches on the table, pouring them both glasses of milk before taking his seat.

Sherlock sighed, sitting at the table and spinning his glass slowly. He supposed he did have a bit of an appetite. He sighed, picking up the sandwich and nibbling on it a little. 

"Sherlock..." John raised his eyebrow pointedly, taking a large bite out of his sandwich and motioning for the Omega to do the same. He reached for his glass, swallowing down a large drink before continuing eating until half of his sandwich was gone.

Sherlock huffed a small sigh, taking a larger bite out of the sandwich before setting it down. He took up the glass, swallowing a couple mouthfuls of milk. "’m not a child..." he murmured quietly, taking another small bite of the sandwich again. "I've never had the largest of appetites," he explained with a small shrug.

John sighed, playing with his glass of milk. "I know you're not. It's just... I'm a doctor, and even if I wasn't, I would worry about you." He sighed again. "You're at least twenty pounds underweight, even for what I can tell your build is normally like." He stood, placing his half of a sandwich back in the fridge and dumping out the remainder of his milk.

"I'm going to go drown myself in a hot shower," John said, kissing Sherlock's temple before heading from the room.

Sherlock sighed, looking up at John. He watched him stand up, closing his eyes a little when John kissed him.

Sherlock looked at the sandwich, then lifted it back up again, quickly making himself eat the whole thing, draining the glass of milk. He sighed, standing up and pacing a small bit. He took a breath, not able to smell John as much now. He sighed, then paced down the hall to the bathroom, where he could hear the shower.

Sherlock blinked, not even thinking when he slipped inside, standing by the door and looking at the curtain, knowing John was behind it. He sat on the toilet lid, listening to John. He sighed. "You're washing away your smell," he said quietly. 

John had scrubbed his skin with soap until he felt raw, trying to take as much time as he could in the shower without just standing there. He jumped a little when he heard the door open, and again when Sherlock spoke from almost right outside of the shower. He pulled back the curtain, shampoo still in his hair, and stared at Sherlock, sitting on the toilet with the sheet still around his waist.

"Come join me, then, and it won't be such a one-sided ordeal," John said before he could really comprehend the words. But he didn't take them back, just stepped back under the water, leaving the curtain open.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, then stood up, letting the sheet fall from around himself before he climbed into the shower. His arms were wrapped around himself and the water spray landed on him a little bit.

Sherlock swallowed, stepping closer to John. He took a breath. "Can't smell you," he said with a frown. He looked at John's arms, how they were red. "You trying to take your skin off?" 

"Yeah I... I mean, no." John gave a long sigh, leaning up from rinsing his hair out, pushing the lengthening blond strands out of his face. "I don't know what I was doing. I just kind of... spaced out, I guess."

John shrugged, stepping aside and gesturing Sherlock towards the water. "If you want to," he suggested, leaning back against the cold tile wall of the shower.

Sherlock took a step towards John, wetting down his hair. He hadn't washed it the last two times he'd been in the shower.

Sherlock leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss to John's cheek. "You want to help?" he asked. "Focus your attention... less spacing out. You can't afford to do that John. Don't have time to do it now, and I don't want you to dare do it over there. You can space out all you like when you come back," he said quietly, trying for a small smile.

John reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone. "Yeah, I know. I'm trying." He reached behind him for the shampoo, pouring some into his palm and standing on his tiptoes to scrub it into Sherlock's hair. "I love your hair," he whispered, slowing down his motions to enjoy the feel more.

Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes and leaning into John's hands like a cat. "Mmm... good, I rather like you playing with it," he murmured with a smile.

"My mother used to all the time, when I was sick and such. When she was around that is," Sherlock said. "Last time she did was during my first heat... she was there the whole time," he said quietly.

"You didn't exactly have a normal family life, did you?" John asked quietly, taking his fingers away so that Sherlock could rinse his hair. "Sounds like your mother loved you, though."

"Mm... Father was a politician and worked mostly out of the country, America a lot of the time. Mother worked from home but often went away to France to take care of Grand-mère," he murmured. "That was when she wasn't traveling with Father," he explained. He hummed a little, rinsing the soap from his hair.

John bit his lip, thinking of his own family. "I should call Harry tonight. Did Mycroft ever get her number?"

"He's probably sent it to me by now," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking at John. "You don't... I don't want you to feel like you have to call her or anything, just because I got the information for you. I understand if you would rather wait," he said.

"No, I should talk to her. She'll either be upset with me or too happy to care. Or she won't believe me." John shrugged, stepping forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist, resting his head against his shoulder. "Either way, it'll be nice to hear her voice again."

Sherlock twined his thin arms around John and nodded, sighing a little. They were quiet for a few minutes before Sherlock pulled away from him.

"I ate the whole sandwich," Sherlock offered. "And all the milk... more than you did. Which, I might add, you need to finish. The skinny whelp is eating more than you," he said with a small smile, using one of the names from the auction house and kissing John's nose sweetly before he climbed out of the shower, wrapping himself up in a towel.

John sighed, watching Sherlock step out of the shower before he turned the water off and stepped out with him, taking a towel from the rack and drying off.

"I'm not hungry," John said. "Actually feel a little nauseous," he admitted quietly. He tied the towel around his waist, making his way into the bedroom. "And you're not a whelp," he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock followed John out into the bedroom, perching on the bed and looking at John. "Simply using an expression," he said with a small shrug.

Sherlock got up and walked over to John, holding John's head in his hands and meeting his gaze. "You're amazing John. And everything will be fine. You still need to eat.  _I_  ate, even. And if you worry so much about my weight then know that I will only eat when you do from now on for the rest of the week," he said. "We'll see whose resolve wears down first."

John looked away, pulling on his track pants and walking over to the bed. He let his fingers slide down Sherlock's arm as he passed, letting him know that he wasn't avoiding him. He laid down on his side, curling up into a ball.

"'m not hungry," John murmured again, holding an arm across his stomach. He knew he was worrying himself sick over something that he couldn't control, but it seemed out of his hands.

Sherlock wet his lips, not sure what to do. He shifted his weight on his feet, thinking. "I have something for you," he said quietly. He threw on a pair of pyjamas and walked into the living room to pick up his violin, moving back into the bedroom and perching on the end of the bed.

"I wrote most of this when I was in that place," Sherlock said quietly, looking at John's back, which was facing him. "I never wrote an ending, though – got harder to think. I finally did though... here," he said quietly. He let out a breath, placing the bow to the strings and closing his eyes. He brought forward the music in his mind, his fingers remembering the motions he'd practiced on air. 

The song that played was one of sharp notes, staccatos rising and falling. It was chaos, and had a nervous edge to it, telling the story of first arriving at that place. It shifted to more of an edgy tone, and Sherlock remembered the anger he'd felt, trying to escape, to fight still. Eventually the tune slowed, long drawn out notes filling the room as Sherlock felt his eyes prick slightly, still keeping them tightly shut, playing through the memories of when he'd started to give up, getting too tired to care, or even being fearful of auction. 

The notes of the song started to leave off, drawing almost to a close with one quiet one still going. That was going to be the end, because what music would there be after the auction?

A sharp note, higher and higher, climbing in a dizzying pattern that was confusion, and excitement, stopping altogether for a moment, before a soft, more uplifting tune played from his fingertips, lasting, and then finally ending on a gentle note.

Sherlock let out a breath, lowering the violin after a moment, though his eyes were still closed, the last bits of John's part of the song echoing in his head.

John had sat up as soon as Sherlock started playing, watching him play his instrument as though it was just an extension of himself. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, but he didn't move to wipe them away, just listening to the music that so perfectly told Sherlock's story.

When the notes ended, leaving the room still ringing with a memory of the song, John crawled forward and wrapped himself around Sherlock, burying his face in his shoulder. "That was lovely. Thank you," he whispered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and swallowing thickly.

Sherlock felt John's arms close around him and he set his instrument aside, wrapping his own around the Alpha. "I fully intend on adding to it, John Watson, and you are going to be here to listen to it," he said quietly.

"I was serious about the eating, though, but I just... I'm not good at this..." Sherlock sighed. "You go in with a good mind set, keep yourself focused and... and push through or whatever it is people say we British do," he said quietly. 

John nodded rapidly. "I'll listen to all of them, and I'll help critique them if I can." He closed his eyes tighter, crushing Sherlock against himself. "I--" His phone rang out, making him jump and pull away from Sherlock.

John rolled over and reached for the mobile before he could give any thought to the caller. "Hello?" he answered, holding the phone against his ear. A few moments of listening and he dropped the devise, his hand covering his mouth as he resisted the urge to either scream or vomit, maybe both. 

_No. No, please, no. Not fair._

Sherlock froze, watching John on the phone. As soon as the phone dropped he climbed over the bed, grabbing onto John's shoulder and looking at him. "They didn't... they can't!" he said. "John? John, tell me I'm over thinking everything I think is happening," he said quickly.

John looked up to meet Sherlock's frantic gaze, knowing his own eyes were blown wide with fear. He lowered his hand from his mouth, his vision going foggy for a moment. "I..." he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Tomorrow night. Flight leaves at six."

John could feel himself trembling and he couldn't stop. The floor had just been ripped from underneath him, and he had nothing else to grab onto, not wanting to drag Sherlock down with him.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop, and he swallowed, his arms wrapping instantly around John. He held him in a vice-like grip, as if it would somehow keep him there.

"It's okay, you're okay... we're okay," Sherlock said, not sure what else to say. He didn't feel okay... but he would, they both would. He looked at John, holding his head in his hands. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you're back," he said. "Like taking off a bandage. It'll be fine, John, because you're a brilliant doctor. You knew what was wrong with me right off the bat because you've got an instinct for it. And it will save lives, and keep you alive. Do you hear me?" he asked sternly, meeting John's gaze.

John was numb. He kept thinking that he had a timeline, that there was still enough time to do everything he wanted to do before he was shipped away, and that reassurance was continuously ripped out from under him.

John stared at Sherlock numbly, not sure how much he was really taking in at the moment.  _Shock_ , his subconscious supplied.  _You're going into shock_. "I hear you," he nodded, though he wasn't sure he was being a hundred percent honest.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little and gently, but firmly, smacked John's cheek with one hand. "John!" he snapped. "You're not allowed to space out for another two years, do you understand!" He pressed a firm kiss to John's lips. "You are forbidden to do so; you pay attention, and use your eyes. Don't just see, observe, and if you have to do anything to keep yourself alive you do it!" He still kept John's face in his grip. "I don't want you doing something as predictably boring as die, do you hear me?!"

John blinked, looking up at Sherlock. He stared at him for a solid ten seconds before he threw his arms around his neck and pulled him close. "I understand," he choked out with a sob, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder. He let himself cry for an immeasurable amount of time before eventually the tears ebbed and he pulled back, wiping at his eyes.

"You slapped me," John accused jokingly, forcing a smile at Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes, holding John and practically sitting on his lap, his legs having wrapped around his back. He looked at John when he'd finally calmed down a little bit, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You weren't listening... you needed to," he said.

John nodded, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. "They said something about training, which is why they're sending me out earlier. To be honest, as soon as they said I was leaving earlier, I wasn't really able to focus." He drew in a long breath and slowly let it out, rubbing his fingers in slow circles over Sherlock's back. "I thought I had all this time with you, and now it's not even twenty-four hours."

"I know... I know," Sherlock murmured, relishing the feeling of John rubbing his back. "Time is just a concept, really, and it's what you do with it," he said. "You are not going to sit here, sulk, and feel sorry for yourself, and neither am I. No point to it, really, and neither of us really want to leave it at that for two years," he murmured.

"Besides, after.... after the weekend... all that, everything we did. Everything you helped me with; I... I'm glad we had that," Sherlock said, a little awkwardly – it was harder now, almost all traces of his heat gone now.

John smiled, despite the situation. He kissed Sherlock's collarbone, nibbling his way gently up his neck to his jaw, nuzzling underneath it. "I'm glad we had that, too," he whispered, seeking out Sherlock's lips and holding them captive for a moment.

"We should go to bed," John murmured when he drew away. "I still need to go to the hospital early tomorrow and tell them that I won't be there."

Sherlock nodded a small bit, pulling away for a moment to get up and set his violin on the dresser. He quickly moved back into the bed and snuggled close to John. "And you can take out my stitches... don't want anyone else doing it," he murmured, pressing a small kiss to John's chest. "And you're going to eat too... otherwise I won't," he said.

John let out a slightly irritable sigh, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him close. He combed his fingers through those errant, dark curls, twirling one around his finger and humming softly to himself.

"Yes, fine. I'll eat. And I'll take out your stitches, too." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, his eyes already slipping closed. "I love you," he murmured, on the verge of falling asleep.

Sherlock was tracing equations on John's chest with his fingers as he started to fall asleep, and he looked up at him. "And I, you, John," he said quietly, watching as John's face slackened. He let out a breath, not feeling the least bit tired. He held still, watching John, his every feature.

Occasionally John would stir, and Sherlock would murmur quietly to him, mostly just little things, periodic elements in order and other useless information, keeping his voice low and calm until John settled again.

Sherlock sighed, glancing out the window some hours later as the sun started to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was done by the amazing [sweetlittlekitty](http://sweetlittlekitty.tumblr.com/). Thank you thank you thank you!!!


	10. Chapter 10

John cracked his eyes open when he realised it was starting to lighten. He kissed Sherlock's forehead instinctively, combing his fingers through his hair. "Morning, love," he murmured, scooting down the bed so that they were even. "How are you?" he asked quietly, pressing his lips to the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, looking at John. "I'm okay," he said quietly, putting on a small smile. He tried to make it look as if he'd slept at all, stretching a small bit. "Morning," he murmured, trying not to think about the chances of this being the last time he could wake up next to John. He swallowed, nuzzling closer to him.

"I know," John murmured, understanding what Sherlock was doing. He held him tighter, burying his face in his hair.

"You didn't sleep," John accused, having noticed the slightly pink tint to Sherlock's eyes, indicating keeping them open all night. John knew the signs; he had seen them on himself enough. "You need to. You're not healed yet."

Sherlock sighed, tucking his face between John's chest and pillow, hiding it. "I did to," he lied, mumbling into the pillow. He sat up a moment later, looking down at his incision. "It's fine. I'm fine," he said, glancing at John. "Really." 

"You're a liar, and I don't believe you for a second." John rolled out of bed, walking into the bathroom for sterilised scissors and tweezers and a clean bandage.

Sherlock sighed, running his fingers over his wrists, which were mostly healed, save for the area he'd picked at.

"Stretch out your side so that I can do this easier," John murmured, setting his hand lightly on Sherlock's ribcage.

Sherlock stretched out on the bed on his right side when John asked, glancing down as he worked.

When his skin was taunt, John started snipping away the three small stitches, using the tweezers to gently pull them out. He put the bandage on over the top of it and then leant down to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "There. Now, breakfast."

Sherlock watched the sutures get pulled out, and then covered again. Sitting up, he looked at John, and then nodded. "Breakfast," he echoed, standing up.

John took Sherlock's hand in his, wanting as much contact with him as possible all day. He led Sherlock into the kitchen, releasing his hand as he started walking around, focusing intently on making pancakes. He knew if he faded out, he would start thinking, and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Wanna cut up some fruit?" John asked Sherlock, glancing quickly at him over his shoulder as he measured out pancake batter.

Sherlock nodded a little, walking over to a hanging basket and plucking out an apple and banana. He opened a drawer and set about to slicing them both after grabbing a knife, pulling out a plate to set them on. He kept glancing at John though, watching him carefully, considering him quietly.

Sherlock set the plate on the table, announcing when he was done.

John glanced over at Sherlock with a smile. "Thanks, love." He quickly finished making them both two large pancakes, setting them on the table along with butter, peanut butter, and syrup. He poured two glasses of milk, knowing they could both do with the extra calories, and finally sat down.

After spreading peanut butter and syrup on his pancakes, John dug in, hungry from not eating a lot last night.

Sherlock sat at the table, next to John rather than across from him. He didn't feel hungry at all, but he glanced at John, seeing him eating, and knew he had to keep up his part. He cut into the pancakes and started eating them slowly, as well as some banana. He swallowed, glancing at John occasionally, before his eyes moved back to his plate.

"I'm going to need your email," Sherlock murmured. "And you'll have to send the first letter… I won't know where to send it to otherwise," he said.

John nodded, picking up some apple slices and eating them. “I'll put your email in my phone," he murmured. "I can't promise that they'll be consistent, but I'll try."

Sherlock nodded a little, eating slowly still. "Hand written, electronic, anything really will suffice," he said. "I know you'll be busy... but as long as you do try, that's what matters," he murmured quietly, trying for a small smile again.

John smiled back, reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheek. "I'll try. Once every two weeks, at least, and I'll warn you if I'm supposed to get really busy," he promised, rising from the table to put his empty plate and glass in the sink.

"I'm going to get dressed," John said, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair before walking into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.

Sherlock nodded, finishing up his plate before he followed John down the hall. His clothes were in there now, too, after all. He got dressed, pulling on a dark purple shirt and black trousers and jacket.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls, looking at John, before pulling a particularly heinous, but completely John, jumper, holding it out to him. It would be warm where he was going; his jumpers were something he wouldn't wear for a while.

John smiled, understanding the sentiment behind the offer. He took the jumper from Sherlock and pulled it on above dark blue jeans. "Thanks, love," he smiled, walking up to him, standing on his toes to kiss him higher on his cheek, his hand on his chest to steady himself. "I like this colour on you," he murmured, tugging at the collar as he dropped down on his heels.

Sherlock smiled a little, smoothing down the front of his shirt slightly. "And the knit suits you more and more, though admittedly perhaps I'm just acclimatising to it," he said with a small smile.

"We should go. I want you to be able to see everyone you want to," Sherlock said, trying not to think about that evening.

John grinned, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him to the door. He pulled on his bomber jacket, tossing Sherlock his Belstaff. "It's really just Mike and two of the doctors I've been working closely with. I said goodbye to Molly yesterday."

John sighed, trotting down the stairs and holding the door for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled on his coat, following after John and stepping out the door. He didn't hesitate this time; after all, soon he'd have to go out and about on his own. He couldn't afford to hesitate.

Sherlock waited for John to lock up, lifting his arm to hail a cab, and then sliding into it when it pulled to the curb. "Bart's," he said after John had got in after him.

John raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything, sliding across the seat and hooking his arm through Sherlock's and resting his head on his shoulder. He laced their fingers together, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "Thank you for coming with me," he murmured.

Sherlock smiled a little. "Purely selfish motives I assure you," he murmured quietly to John, resting his head on John's. "Not letting you out of my sight until I have to. Don't care how horrible the hospital is," he said.

John closed his eyes, swallowing thickly. "Good. I would be highly upset with you if you did," he murmured teasingly, nudging Sherlock in the side. He leant up to press a quick kiss to Sherlock's neck before he settled down again.

Sherlock sighed, watching London pass by them, recognising some street names and remembering the maps he'd gone over in his spare time.

When the cab pulled in front of Bart's, Sherlock climbed out, looking at the building and forcing himself to relax a little. It would probably be the last time he was here for a while anyway.

John paid the cabbie, climbing out after Sherlock and taking up his hand again. "We'll see if the doctors have patients, and then we'll go see Mike," John suggested, leading the way into the lobby of the hospital. He smiled at the receptionist, who told him that Dr McCann was free at the moment and Dr Howard was going to be free in twenty minutes or so.

John thanked her, squeezing Sherlock's hand and guiding him to the lift to take them up to the office levels.

Sherlock smiled a little, letting out a breath as they walked through the hospital. He wet his lips as they rode up the lift, glancing at John. While they were still on their way up, Sherlock leant over, taking a breath of John's scent and pressing a small kiss on his neck, calming himself down a little.

John hummed, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist to hold him against him. "You're alright," he promised. "I've got you. Always." He smiled over at Sherlock, nuzzling at his jaw.

When the lift doors opened, John stepped outside, leading Sherlock down a hall to a marked door. He knocked twice, and a voice from inside told him to enter. John smiled at Sherlock and pushed open the door.

Sherlock nodded a little, following John out into the hallway. It smelled somewhat less clinical on this floor, a place for offices and paperwork, no doubt. They paused at one door, John knocking before opening it up. They walked into the office, John pulling him inside.

Sherlock glanced up at the man, Beta, and an older doctor, one of John's mentors then. He stayed close to John's side, looking around the office silently.

John smiled at the older doctor. "I came to say goodbye," he started before Dr McCann could ask. "I got a call for service. They moved my departure time up." He squeezed Sherlock's hand reassuringly, watching his mentor lower his pen and take off his glasses.

"When are you being shipped out?" McCann asked, folding his hands on the desk. He was going to be sad to see John leave. John was definitely one of his more promising pupils, and he had the steadiest hands and the quickest mind.

John swallowed, flicking his gaze away and then back up at the doctor. "Tonight," he said, his voice steady and solid. He gripped Sherlock's hand tighter, keeping them both steady.

McCann nodded slowly, standing from his desk and walking over to John. He held out his hand – his left hand, even though he was right handed. John smiled, shaking with his dominant hand. "I wish you the best, though I know you'll do excellent. You don't back down from anything. I've seen you handle more in the last week than most doctors get in their first six months, and you did excellent. Stop back in when you finish your tour; I'll buy you a pint."

Sherlock listened to the exchange, looking down and leaving them to talk. It was easy for the doctor; he was losing a helpful hand and promising student. If John died, then – if he even found out – perhaps he would be a little upset, and think of him from time to time.

Sherlock, though... he wouldn't have a life if not for John, and he had no idea what he was going to do for two years, let alone the rest of his life if John never came back.

John said thank you, blushing a little at the compliments that he doubted were true. With a final handshake, he backed from the room, leading Sherlock with him.

John glanced up at the Omega, wrapping his arm around his waist. "Are you alright?" he asked, checking his watch and heading down a different hallway.

Sherlock nodded, putting on a small smile. "Of course – hospitals remember?" he said. "Besides I was busy last night, watching you sleep, not getting much of my own," he said quietly with a shrug.

John shook his head but let it go. He paused outside of the office door to press a kiss to the hollow of Sherlock's throat before turning and knocking on the door. He entered when he was told to, and ended having much the same conversation with the slightly older Alpha.

Sherlock stayed quiet again around the Alpha, shifting a little when his gaze fell on Sherlock.

John could sense Sherlock becoming more uncomfortable beside him and left the room quickly after shaking hands with his other mentor. "One more stop and then it's just you and me," he promised, heading back to the lifts.

Sherlock let out a breath when they left the office, and he squeezed John's hand. He nodded a little. "Mike Stamford," he said quietly, the man who is the reason he was with John at all. 

John nodded, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock had figured out Mike's last name. "He's on the teaching level. In the classrooms." One cool thing about Bart's was that it was in direct cohesion to a university, so there were medical classes taught here, which was what Mike wanted to do – become a medical professor. "He's a student teacher right now. It's nearing his lunch hour. We can just stand outside of his classroom until it gets let out."

John's stomach clenched. It was almost noon. Just over six more hours.

Sherlock nodded, following closely after John. They lingered by a door, and Sherlock eyed the clock. He swallowed, holding onto John's arm and pressing closely to him. It was more difficult right now, not as easy as it had been the day before, but he didn't care, this was the time he had left; he wasn't going to waste it.

John clenched his jaw, not wanting to accept that time was running out. He closed his eyes, opening them only when the door in front of them opened and students poured out. John looked up at Sherlock, wrapping his arm around his hip and walking inside with him.

"Mike, you in here?" John called ahead of them, wincing at the way his voice echoed around the room.

Sherlock stayed close to John still as they entered the classroom, looking up and around it a little. He turned his head when he saw a young, somewhat rotund Alpha stroll into the room from what looked like a supply closet. Sherlock shifted on his feet a little, looking away from him.

"John! Been a minute; how've you been?" Mike asked with a smile, gaze moving over to Sherlock. "No way... is that the same Omega that you got at the auction... looks a right sight better doesn't he?" he asked with a smile.

Sherlock let out a breath.  _He is standing right here,_  he thought to himself.

"Mike." John raised his eyebrows at his friend. "I'd appreciate it if you treated Sherlock like the person he is. I signed over his paperwork to himself; no one owns him now." John tightened his arm around Sherlock's hips, shaking his head slightly.

Sherlock glanced up at John for a moment; he didn't have to stand up to his friend like that, even if it was right. He didn't want John to leave on bad terms with Mike. He swallowed.

Mike's ears went a little pink. "Sorry, didn't mean to... anyway. You ah… you're looking better," he said a little awkwardly to Sherlock, who nodded a small bit, not meeting his gaze.

"That's not why I'm here, anyway,” John said. “I came to say goodbye. I'm being deported tonight. Kind of came as a shock, but, what can I do?" John shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

Mike looked back at John. "Tonight? Shit... well they just love giving fair warning don't they?" he said, walking over to clap his hand on John's shoulder. "You just watch yourself alright mate?" he said, squeezing his shoulder a bit.

"Yeah," John nodded, meeting Mike's gaze and squeezing his shoulder as well. "Yeah, I will. I'd wish you luck here, but you and I both know you don't need it. You've got this in the bag." He smiled at his friend, trying to keep it from faltering. He thought he was doing a damn good job.

"Yeah well, we do know that's true. And I'm not wishing you luck either. The John Watson I know doesn't need it," Mike said. "You just watch your arse, and do what you do best," he said. He shifted a little. "Wish I had more time mate, but I've got a short lunch today, then a meeting. You drop us a line and come see me when you get back. We'll go to a pub and get pissed," he said, clapping John on the shoulder again before leaving, paying no mind to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed, looking up at the door when he left. He sighed, leaning against John.

John let out a long breath when Mike left, turning to wrap his arms around Sherlock and pull him close. "Let's just go home," he suggested, leaning back to look up at Sherlock. "I'm exhausted and I still need to pack a travel bag."

Taking Sherlock's hand, John led the way back to the main level and onto the street, raising his hand for a cab and holding the door for Sherlock when one pulled up.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, following John along and sliding into the cab when John hailed it. He leant up close to John – almost one pm, five hours.

Sherlock started to feel a bit of worry eating at him and he pushed it away. Some part of him, the part that was so close to John and _needed_ him there was close to begging John to run. They could hide away somewhere until Mycroft could make a reason for him not to go.

Sherlock didn't so much as voice this, nor show it. It was hard enough for John as it was. He let out a breath, tired, but nowhere near being able to sleep.

"You look beat," John commented, wrapping his arm around the Omega, gently rubbing circles into his back. "I want you to promise me that you'll sleep tonight," he said, kissing Sherlock's temple. "Promise me," he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut with the realisation that tonight he would be landing in Afghanistan after a nearly eight hour flight.

Sherlock let out a slow breath, nodding a couple times as he rested his head on John's shoulder. "I promise... if you do," he murmured quietly. He knew John wouldn't be sleeping though... and that in all likelihood neither would he. He let out a breath, glancing out the window. "I'll keep the flat in order, try not to burn it down or anything," he said quietly. 

John couldn't help a small chuckle. "I wasn't worried," he murmured, kissing Sherlock's cheek.

When the cab pulled up in front of the flat, John paid and got out, staring up at the simple building for what felt like the last time before unlocking the door and stepping inside, trotting up the stairs and directly into the bedroom. He quickly packed a few essentials, working hard not to think about the time, but when he was done, it was nearly two pm. "Four hours," he whispered to himself, his stomach rolling.

Sherlock made his way up the steps of the flat, looking around it a little and sighing. It wouldn't smell like John after a week, he'd wager. And then it would, for all intents and purposes, be  _his_  flat.

Sherlock moved out into the bedroom, watching John pack up the rest of his bag. "How are you getting there?" he asked quietly. "Taking a cab or... or do they send someone?" he asked.

"Cab," John replied quietly, turning to look at Sherlock. "Are you coming with? I mean, I can understand if you wouldn't want to, but..." he shook his head, his throat tightening with emotion. "I don't want to say goodbye to you," he breathed, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. "I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. I don't think I would ever be."

Sherlock swallowed, stepping up and wrapping his arms around John's middle, resting his head on his shoulder. "I'll come with you," he said. "And you don't think for one second about saying goodbye, John," he said. "Because I'm going to see you again." Goodbye always seemed to put some kind of permanence on things, and Sherlock didn't want that... not this time.

John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, reaching up to comb his fingers through his curls. "Alright, no goodbyes then," he promised, turning to kiss Sherlock's cheek before stepping back and cupping his face for a moment. "Let's go sit down. I wanna hold you."

Sherlock nodded, pulling away but keeping his hands on John as he tugged him down the hall to the sofa. He gently pushed John down onto it and then climbed up on top of him, covering him like a blanket and snuggling his cheek against his chest. "Then hold me," he murmured quietly.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock again, one hand winding into his hair and just staying there. Tears slipped from his eyes and he let them, not caring anymore who saw his emotions. He was leaving in too short of a time frame, and he knew that they had to leave the flat in less than an hour to give him enough time at the airport.

"I'm coming back for you," John whispered, wrapping his arms tighter. "No matter what."

Sherlock sniffed quietly, not allowing anything else from himself. "You'd better," he said quietly, pressing himself against John gently. His eyes were closed and he couldn't help but relax against John, almost dozing lightly, listening to John's breathing and heartbeat under his head. 

John let them lay there until he knew there was no choice; they had to go or he would miss his flight. "Sherlock," he whispered, nudging his shoulder gently. "Love, we need to go." He regretted having to say the words, but they needed to be spoken. "I can't miss my flight."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open with a start, sucking in a disoriented breath. He fell asleep? He looked at John.

"I... I fell asleep... you let me fall asleep John!" Sherlock said, sitting up and looking at him. He'd wasted time, precious minutes he'd had, and he'd wasted them, and John had let him. And now he was leaving. He let out a shaky breath, stuffing it all down and putting on a mask; emotions wouldn't rule him.

"I... let's go... can't miss your flight," Sherlock repeated quietly, standing up and rubbing his side a little bit.

"Of course I let you fall asleep," John said, furrowing his eyebrows at Sherlock. "You needed the rest." He pushed to his feet, catching Sherlock's fingers for a moment as he walked into the bedroom to grab his bag. He took one more look around the room before turning sharply away and briskly walking down the hall.

John shrugged on his coat, watching as Sherlock did the same, and then took the lead down the stairs.

Sherlock pulled on his coat, following John down the stairs. "But that was our time..." he said quietly as he reached the bottom.

 _Time that would have just made everything worse._ John didn't say that, though. He remained quiet as they got into the cab and drove off, wrapping his arm tightly against Sherlock's waist, holding him close.

Sherlock reached out, taking John's hand and following him out, getting into the cab when John hailed it. He looked at the flat, and then to John. "I don't have keys yet... didn't have time to get more," he said quietly. "I can... can hold onto them," he offered, leaning up close to John and pressing against his side.

John reached into his pocket, taking out his keys and handing them over to Sherlock, feeling like any hope of him not leaving went with the exchange.

"This one gets into the main door, this is the key to the upstairs door. The others... post office box, the lab at Bart's." John swallowed, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock nodded, looking at them. He tucked them in his pocket, squeezing John's hand. "I'm just borrowing them. When you come back... we'll get spare keys made," he said quietly. He wet his lips, nuzzling the top of John's head gently, breathing in his scent. 

"Right, yeah." John sought out Sherlock's hand, squeezing it tightly. "We'll be okay, right? We'll be fine."

"More than okay." Sherlock confirmed, squeezing John's hand.

John looked up, panicked, when he felt the cab slowing down, staring out of the window at Heathrow airport. "Shit," he breathed, closing his eyes tightly until he had to get out.

They sat in the cab for a moment, the driver turning around and looking at them and Sherlock shot him a look. The metre was still running; he could wait.

After a few minutes, they got out, Sherlock handing the driver his card to run really quick, and then he led John out of the cab.

"Just breathe, John, okay?" Sherlock said as they walked, painfully slow, towards where they had to go. "You just keep breathing, and don't stop for anything. Okay? You promise," he said.

John stopped, just this side of the first row of security. "I promise," he whispered, hesitating for a moment before throwing his arms around Sherlock's neck and burying his face in the crook of his neck. A dry sob choked him, and he clung tighter to Sherlock. "I love you," he whispered, over and over until the words mixed together and he could no longer understand them. He buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair, needing to feel it one last time before he left.

Sherlock felt something painful twist in his chest, and he felt like something was being ripped out of it. He put his arms around John tightly. "I love you... John," he said quietly, his eyes closing.

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder at the security. "I can't go any further, can I?" he asked quietly, pulling away a little to look at John.

Sherlock remembered quickly and took John's phone, putting his old email into it. He shoved it back into John's pocket and stole up John's lips for a chaste kiss, afraid to do more; he'd never let John leave otherwise. 

John shook his head slowly, cupping Sherlock's cheek and meeting his eyes. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he whispered, running his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone.

"I won't," Sherlock said numbly, leaning into John's hand a little.

"Don't forget to eat and sleep. And write me a song," he requested, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock again before he took a step back and then another. "Love you," he whispered, his voice broken, and he forced himself to turn and walk away.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something to John, but he had already turned away, walking towards security.

Sherlock didn't move from where he was, watching him as his bag went through and he stepped through, taking it back up again. He waited for John to turn back, look at him just once, but he rounded a corner and was gone.

Sherlock didn't move, still, standing there for a while as if some part of him was hoping John would come back, say that they'd changed their minds, that they had more time. Say that the war was over and they were sending everyone home.

Sherlock blinked, looking down and remembering that he didn't allow himself to hope, because then you started to wish for the impossible. Having the war declared over in one night was impossible, but John coming home wasn't, and he wouldn't hope. He would wait.

Sherlock finally left the airport, riding back to the flat and climbing the steps slowly before collapsing onto their bed, which still smelled like the both of them. He didn't cry – he wouldn't allow it, he simply lay there, curled up, thinking through the timeline of what John was doing.

***

John had forced himself not to look back, because if he had turned around, if he had got just one more glimpse of Sherlock, he would have said to hell with all of it and gone back to him, and then he would have had the government on his arse and who knew exactly what would have happened. So he kept forcing one foot in front of the other until he was on the plane, and then he folded in on himself and started crying, ignoring the flight attendant who asked if he was alright. No, he wasn't bloody alright, but he remained silent, sobs raking through him.

John didn't sleep, watching the clouds out of the window without seeing them until the sky turned dark and all he could see was his own reflection. He snapped the blind shut, biting his cheek until he tasted blood, and then he kept biting it, the sting helping him focus his energy on calming down.

***

Sherlock didn't sleep the whole night again, his face buried in John's pillow, though by the next morning it hardly smelled like him anymore. He didn't get out of bed for most of the day, either, no alarm making him, no one to tell him to eat. He heard his phone go off a few times, but it wasn’t his email alert noise, and he knew John couldn't text from where he was.

At some point in the evening the next day, Sherlock fished out the other half of John's sandwich that he didn't eat, and forced himself to eat it, and then checked his phone. Mycroft, oozing with annoying 'concern' as ever. He didn't reply, finally going back to the bedroom and sprawling on the bed, looking at his violin across the room. He fell, finally – after almost forty-eight hours of not doing so – into an uneasy sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm... warning of plenty of angst... o.o

_November 13_

_Hey, Sherlock. Shit, sorry I couldn't write sooner. The plane landed and I basically got my arse shipped out to a lone section of camp to do boot training with my team for the last five days. I'm technically not supposed to be discussing any of this with you, but fuck it, right? Um, training was a pain, and holy crap, it's really hot out here, and moving in these stupid Osprey vests is not as easy as they make it sound. I found out I'm really good with a handgun and really shitty with an assault rifle, but I'm working on it._

_I found two scorpions in my boots after the first night, and I've refused to take them off since. And apparently not all rattle snakes have rattles? Would have been nice to know before coming here._

_Anyway, I miss you, and I love you. You better be eating. And sleeping. So help me, I will call Mycroft (one of the Majors on base knows him, apparently. Something about poker night...). Okay, so I won't call him, but I worry about you. And I think about you every day._

_Love you so much,_

_John_

***

Sherlock didn't leave the flat, and of course he received no end of trouble for it. He was used to being stuck in one place, and the conditions of the flat were much nicer, so he saw no reason to go out. He ignored most of Mycroft's texts until the man showed up in the flat one day. Sherlock then endured two hours of lecture, which almost counted as a conversation.

Sherlock felt something in his chest lift a little when he finally got John's email.

 

_November 14_

_John,_

_I'm writing this from that cafe downstairs, part of an agreement with Mycroft, don't ask. Currently I am halfway through a turkey sandwich, so I'm sure that constitutes eating. It's been raining here, but that is nothing new for London. I suppose this might be where a normal person would say that they'd send some over to you._

_I miss you, too; the flat's too quiet. And to be honest I'm adjusting to not being around other people all the time, they had us living twelve to a room in the auction house, and then there was you so... it's odd. But I'm fine._

_Mycroft is worried enough for the both of you, and you definitely don't need to call him. He's pretty much ordered me to shadow the next case his bondmate Lestrade gets so... looks like the key to the lab will come in handy, I guess._

_I'm writing you that song by the way... I'd send you some sheet music, but I know you can't read it, so I guess it'll be a surprise... or something. Remember your promise, and I'll keep mine._

_Love you._

_Yours, Sherlock._

***

John wiped the sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand, not wanting to smear blood on it. He backed away from the patient he had just finished treating, letting the nurses step in to do the final stages of the surgery before they wheeled him away. The private had lost his leg, but he would survive.

John stripped out of his scrubs and gloves, signing out of the hospital and making his way across the darkened camp to the communications tent. Remembering Sherlock's last letter, he sat down at the computer and tried to write something half ways interesting.

 

_November 25_

_Oh, love,_

_I'm glad you're eating. And I know that it's annoying, but getting out of the flat and doing something is good for you, so please don't be too mad at your brother._

_They put me to work in the hospital, since there's nothing my team can do right now. I've been doing two long surgeries a day, so far. Just finished up an amputation on an IED victim. Kid was nineteen. He'll live, though, he'll just hate himself._

_Sorry, I'm not being very cheerful, am I?_

_I can't wait to hear what you composed. I've got your letter tucked into the pocket of my vest. All the guys give me shit for it, but they can go stuff it._

_I got bumped up a rank. Apparently, that's some sort of record? I don't know, we spent the night celebrating until I got called in on an emergency surgery and then... yeah._

_Please tell me you've been doing something more exciting than me._

_Until then,_

_John_

***

A week passed, and Sherlock felt like he was going mad. He heard nothing, and still spent most of his time in the flat. Lestrade finally showed up, though, and made him come along to a crime scene. It was intriguing, he supposed, and even caught his attention some.

Sherlock got John's email a couple days later; the days had passed quicker that time.

 

_November 25_

_You've no idea how wonderful it feels to hear from you, which is odd; to count, John, you are one of the few people I've actually looked forward to talking to. I'm glad you're bored, but at least busy._

_Shame about the kid, though really he's older than me, isn't he? He's going home though, and that's what's important, I suppose. The last week has been maddening, but Lestrade finally dragged me out of the flat to a crime scene. Looked like a mugging, but really it was a domestic thing, obvious, but no one else saw it but me. No one here calls me brilliant though; in fact there's this one Sergeant, she doesn't like me at all, but I don't really care much. I don't know if I'll help on another case; sure helps to pass the time, I suppose._

_Congratulations on your rank, and keep yourself busy, yeah? I hand-wrote this one. Something in it, too, for you. I accidentally burned a bit of my purple shirt while in the lab, and so I cut off a bit of the silk from it – it's in the smaller envelope. Just so they have something else to 'give you shit' for._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_November 29_

_Sorry for the crappy handwriting in this one, I'm trying to write while riding in a Land Rover, and Granger isn't exactly making it easy on me._

_God, I'm glad to hear you're busy. Keep doing so, please. Tell the Sergeant to piss off. I think you're brilliant and who gives a damn about what she thinks._

_We're just getting back from a supply run, and then tomorrow morning we're going out on our first mission. I haven't told anyone else, but I'm nervous as hell. It's small, and I know everything will be fine, but I can't stop my stomach from twisting in knots._

_I can't believe you burned your shirt. What in the world were you doing? Did you burn yourself, too? Anyway, I've got both of your letters and the fabric folded up in my pocket. Please, please go out and buy another purple shirt. And don't burn this one, I'd like to see it when I get home._

_Say hi to Molly for me the next time you see her, will you?_

_Love you,_

_John_

***

_December 6_

_The letter was legible enough, I'm sure by now you're done with your mission right? I'm not sure where you'll be, but Mycroft will see to it you get the letter._

_My birthday is in exactly one month; I'll be 19. Molly says hello, and is almost insisting that I go with either her or Lestrade to a pub or something. I'm legal now, apparently, but they said I should celebrate on my birthday or something. That's what a normal person would do right?_

_It's starting to get a bit cold, and it's boringly grey here. Helped solve two more murders, and I've tested out of several classes already. Of course I had to pay for the tests, but at this rate I might finish by spring. Seems a bit far away, now that I think about it._

_I did replace the shirt; it was one of my favourites too, and my arm is fine, nothing that won't clear up on its own, the shirt took most of the damage. I keep thinking about that mission you mentioned, and the thought crossed my mind that this letter might sit unread in a stack somewhere. That's stupid of course; Mycroft would make sure it got to you, and you're reading it now. If you can send a picture maybe? Wouldn't mind seeing your uniform, and maybe a bit of sun._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_December 8_

_[Picture file attached]_

_I got your letter just fine. I would have handwritten back, but we don't have any way to print photos, so an email seemed the most logical way to go. So, there you are, I guess. That's basic camouflage uniform, Osprey vest on. I bet you noticed already, but I'm a Staff Sergeant now. Not quite sure why; I'm just tagging along._

_I can't give details, but I can promise that the mission went smoothly. No one got hurt except for Granger, and that's just because he has no bounds of appropriateness and got slapped by a female officer. He still has a bruise on his cheek._

_I think you should definitely go out on your birthday. I think that would be good for you to get out of the flat and just let go for a while._

_You should send me a picture back, I miss seeing you. And I'm still waiting on that song._

_Love you,_

_John_

 

John pushed away from the computer, trudging back to his room and collapsing on the bed. Gunfire still rang in his ears from the mission, and he swallowed tightly when he remembered how close he had been to getting shot. Another five inches and it would have been straight through his skull.

Of course, he hadn't told Sherlock that, the same way that he hadn't told him about the list he had started keeping. Every soldier he had lost so far got his or her name written on a piece of paper, along with their birth date. He kept the list right beside Sherlock's notes, and they were the last things he looked at every night.

***

_December 9_

_Thought I might write this one, have nothing else to do. I detest being sick John, you've no idea. This stupid idiot forensics man sneezed near me and now I have whatever he did; let's just hope stupid isn't contagious._

_You look good, tired though, you are trying to get some sleep aren't you? I'm getting a somewhat decent amount I suppose, but I find it hard when thinking about a case... and about you._

_You look tanner too, did I mention? All that sun I suppose… me I'm just as pasty as ever, and then being sick hasn't helped much in that regard. Got more used to the quiet I suppose, but I still get pretty bored. Mrs Hudson makes sure I stay fed too, though I think I've upset her by what she found in the fridge. Oh well._

_I hope you're staying safe, though I know you're not telling me everything. You're doing surgeries, they're coming from somewhere so I know things are happening. Just please tell me if you're hurt or... or if you do need to tell me something. I don't know, and I don't like not knowing things. Hope this reaches you well._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_December 23_

_Time got away from me again. I'm really sorry. You should be better by now, I hope it was just a cold and nothing more. I can assure you, as a doctor, that stupid is not contagious._

_I'm sleeping as much as I can, which, I'll admit, isn't a whole lot. I'm managing three hours most nights. Sometimes I get lucky and get five, sometimes I don't get any._

_May I ask what exactly Mrs Hudson found in the fridge that upset her so much?_

_How in the world can you tell I'm keeping secrets when you're way over there in London? My handwriting couldn't have given it away; I typed that last letter._

_Most things that happen I honestly can't tell you, love. I'm sworn under oath until I get shipped back home, and even then, I'm limited. I'm not injured, I promise. It's just a lot to take in. I'm getting shot at, and I'm shooting back. I've... Christ, Sherlock, I've killed at least twenty-five people so far. On purpose and without blinking. Everyone else gets affected by it, but not me. Does that mean there's something wrong with me?_

_It's been over a month now. God, I miss you. Every day. I don't ever stop thinking about you, not ever._

_Love you forever,_

_John_

***

Sherlock kept badgering Mycroft for information, but he couldn't give him any, saying that if something had happened, he'd know. Sherlock tried not to think about it and shoved himself into work, case after case, test after test. He eventually got bored and took on cold cases as well.

Sherlock cut himself off, not talking to other people unless he absolutely needed to. Which he often didn't. He was getting used to alone, he worked better alone, and felt altogether better alone. Except when he thought about John again, which he tried not to, because he still hadn't heard from him.

Sherlock's thoughts were bothering him, and quite by accident, he started smoking, one of the officers offering him one at a crime scene, and after about a week he found they relaxed him some. 

 

_December 24_

_Christmas Eve, just got your message. I'm sitting in the flat, and can hear carollers outside. I hope you don't mind, I'm using your computer, not exactly Fort Knox by the way. It's odd, I could never really tell what day it was in that place, but you could always tell when it was almost Christmas. Because we got sold so much faster. Presents I guess. It's my first holiday since I was out, and I know what I want for Christmas._

_Anyway, been doing more cases, nothing too interesting; it's been driving me mad, but still, something to do, I suppose. And speaking of secrets, and how we're not keeping them over letters, I smoke now. I know, I know, spare me the lecture, I'm planning on quitting, but not until two weeks after my birthday. You see a week after is... well it's the four year anniversary since my parents... well anyway, bit stressed is all. The date’s set though, then patches._

_Happy Christmas John,_

_Love,_

_Sherlock_

***

_December 28_

_I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas. Actually, I didn't even realise it was Christmas until I got your email._

_We've been... well, it hasn't been pretty, lately._

_I won't lecture you about the smoking, because I know you know better. Not that I could really judge anyway; I have a shot of hard tequila before I go to bed every night._

_I'm sorry the cases aren't holding your interest like they used to, and I'm sorry I'm not there._

_I lost one of my soldiers today. Shot three days ago, and he just couldn't hold it out. We've got a new soldier joining in the morning._

_Long mission coming up, love. Don't get concerned if I don't write for a while. I'm sure Mycroft is keeping tabs on me, anyway. But, yeah, it might take a while._

_Try not to be alone on the sixteenth. I know you're going to want to, but please, for me, sit with Mrs Hudson or go out with Molly. Friends are good to have, love. You shouldn't have to be alone through that, and I don't want you to be._

_Love forever,_

_John_

***

_January 2_

_Happy New Year, John._

_I suppose you're still on your mission. I got your letter, I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas either._

_A shot every night John? Set a deal, I'll cut down on cigarettes, if you cut down on that. I'm sorry for the man you lost, I know that can't be easy._

_I'll always be concerned if I don't hear from you, John, and I'm sure I can't help that._

_How did you know it was the sixteenth? Doesn't matter I suppose, and... I'll try and do that. I think Mycroft goes to the cemetery or something every year but... I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. I wouldn't want to go with him, and I don't want to go with anyone else, or alone. That day always just passed me by – the presence of a calendar is tedious._

_I did get you something for Christmas, and I hope it reaches you. Mycroft is going to make sure it does, so that it doesn't get confiscated. Inside the small padded envelope is a micro SD card, with your song in it. Finally finished, been a bit hard to find time or inspiration or whatever it is people call it. I hope you like it._

_Been working on a new case, serial killer by the looks of things, should be interesting. Stay safe._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

***

_January 25_

_I got your present, love. It was... indescribably gorgeous. Thank you._

_I like that deal you proposed. I'm down to three shots a week, which is some form of improvement, I guess._

_I got nicked by a bullet. It's fine, small graze on my leg. Makes me a little nervous that they were aiming so low, like they wanted to take out our knees instead of killing us. I'm not exactly sure what to think._

_The new soldier on my team is a bomb tech, so we've been going out around a lot of bombs lately. Car bombs scare the shit out of me._

_I hope you're alright. How did you spend your birthday? The sixteenth? You should have quit smoking by now; have you?_

_I've been back from the mission for two days now and haven't slept. I've been going in working surgeries and drinking a lot of coffee when I'm not in the OR._

_I still miss you. Don't think anything can stop that._

_Love you,_

_John_

_P.S. I forgot to mention, I'm a Warrant Officer now._

***

Four days after sending his letter, it was Sherlock's birthday. He didn't want to do anything really, but Molly convinced him, and so he and Lestrade (Mycroft had work apparently, which was his gift to Sherlock, no doubt) went to a pub. 

A little over a week later was the sixteenth, and Sherlock stayed in the flat. He stared at his violin, wanting nothing more than to play it, but he couldn't. He just sat there staring at it. Mycroft texted once, offering to send a car if Sherlock wanted to join him. Sherlock didn't reply.

He didn't do anything for two days, just thinking, and trying not to think, eating nothing but some stale cake leftover from the one Mrs Hudson had made for him. Sherlock had tried cutting back on cigarettes, but if anything he needed them more after that day. 

 

_January 26_

_You're welcome for the song, I'm glad you liked it. The card should fit in your phone – you can carry it with you I should think._

_My birthday went okay, would have been better, I'm sure, if you were here. Molly and Lestrade dragged me to a pub, and attempted to get me 'pissed,' as you would say. They might have half succeeded. I certainly felt... different._

_Please be careful, I don't want another scar to memorise outside that nick on your leg, do you understand? I can't stand the thought of a car bomb, or rather a car with a bomb in it, and with you in it._

_Speaking of car related deaths, the sixteenth went swimmingly. I'll be honest it... was hard. But I was okay, even chatted with Mrs Hudson for a bit, and she fed me up with this stew of hers._

_Make sure you get some sleep, can't very well take care of others or yourself properly if you're half awake._

_As for the smoking, I'm working on it, I've cut down quite a lot, switching to patches soon._

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock looked over the letter, folding it up along with a photo Lestrade insisted on taking on Sherlock's birthday. He looked at the camera, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He thought it looked genuine; he wanted to send a nice picture to John. Looking over the letter he saw the lies, but did nothing to fix them. It was hard enough for John, and he didn't need to know everything. He wanted him to be safe; if he was worried about Sherlock he couldn't be. 

***

_January 29_

_Last day before we leave on another mission. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid. We've been told it's a small arms mission because we're dealing with a lot of women and children. I don't care about orders – I'm bringing my Browning._

_I'm glad to hear about the smoking. I wish I had something to send you, but we're not allowed to keep actual possessions here, and there's nothing that I can get that would mean anything._

_Thanks for the photo. I know you're trying to look happy, but you're not the only deductive person. I can see that look in your eyes. Talk to me if you need to, I always have an ear open for you, even if you think I worry too much._

_I won't be responding for a while. Don't forget that I love you, ever. I'll talk to you soon._

_Love you always,_

_John_

 

John stared down at the pen and paper, skimming over the bare truths. He hadn't mentioned the numerous scars he had accumulated from... well, he didn't actually know. He sighed, taking his third shot of the evening, and turned off the light to go to sleep.

***

_February 5th_

_I have to ask Mycroft if there's any way to get your letters sooner. I know you're on that mission now. If the length of the last one was any indication, then I wonder if I'll hear from you this month at all._

_I'm doing fine John, that 'look' in my eyes was nothing more than wanting you there as well, but you'll be there for my 21st birthday, and it will more than make up for it._

_You are staying safe, though, aren't you? You'd better be. Why are they sending you on so many damn missions, anyway? Surely they need you to be further back, can't perform the way you need to if you're right on the front lines. I'm going to talk to Mycroft. Again._

_Don't be stupid and get shot or something. Because you're supposed to come home._

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock sighed, sealing up the letter and putting it in the outgoing mail. He was on his way home when he started to feel a little off. It was still winter, ice everywhere on the pavement, why was he so hot? It wasn't until he saw a few looks of people on the street he realised.

Sherlock felt something seize up in his chest, and he ran home, locking both doors to the flat before anyone could follow him. He swallowed, moving into the bedroom, which no longer smelled of John anymore. God, how he wished it had.

He moved to John's drawers, tearing them open and searching for something,  _anything,_  that had his scent, and couldn't find anything. John had done laundry before he left. 

The heat was worse than any he'd had – turns out being completely alone during it was so much worse; he almost wished there were Alphas taunting him from outside.

***

_March 2_

_Don't worry about me, please. I'm alright. The last mission was interesting; I'm not used to handling knives, but I'm making time to practice now. Throwing them is easier than wielding them, I think._

_It's almost been four months, now. I know you've probably been through your heat cycle again. I'm sorry I wasn't there – I wish I had been._

_I miss you. I wish I was there. This desert is... lonely. Hot._

_I have to go, love. They need me in the med ward._

_I love you, stay safe,_

_John_

 

John sent the email quickly and tore off after the orderly, ignoring the sharp sting on his neck from the knife wound. He scrubbed down quickly and raced into the OR.

After an hour of working on the shrapnel wound, the soldier died of blood loss and torn organs, and John added another name to his list.

***

After Sherlock's heat, he threw himself back into work, nearly going mad without it. Molly was as cheerful as ever, and during his time in the lab he even saw Mike more. Their conversations were mostly non-existent, asking after John and how he was.

"Yes well if I knew that, I might not be wearing four patches right now so do us both a favour and piss off so I can think!" Sherlock snapped, turning back to his microscope as the Alpha left in a huff. Sherlock didn't care, he was working, and it was what he had. He'd finished his undergraduate degree, and had no interest in pursuing anything else. There wasn't any point to. 

 

_March 3_

_Throwing knives would be better, less chance of injury which I know you have. The extent of your uniform… I'd say probably neck, am I right? Why else put yourself into training with them more unless your lack of training led to an injury. I'm sure you're fine though; wouldn't send me an email if you were bleeding to death._

_Sorry, I suppose that was meant to be humour, but it wasn't that funny. I don't know, I don't do well with people. Saw Mike once, I doubt I'll see him again. He says hi, I suppose, kept asking after you, but then I didn't know so... I was a bit what people might call ‘touchy’ about it._

_On patches now. I hate them, and am gasping for a cigarette._

_I did have my heat again, and am determined not to again. I'm working on adapting the suppressants that are available for Alphas that make them resistant to an Omega's heat, and trying to work them to suppress the heat all together. Frankly, I find it repulsive that the only kind of control for that is provided only for Alphas. As if they didn't have enough already. Anyway, I'm almost done with a compound, testing it my next cycle._

_Stay safe..._

_Sherlock_

***

_March 18_

_I'm glad you're on patches. I've stopped drinking except for the occasional shot at the end of the week._

_I don't know what to talk to you about anymore. I've been doing nothing but missions and surgeries. A car bomb went off about fifty meters from base, and I'm not sure how it got past the fence, but it was there._

_I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Minor injuries; things to be expected during a war, I suppose. We're leaving in three days for what sounds like a really long mission – it'll probably be over a month before I get back to you, maybe two. I don't know. They're sending us off into the mountains to check out a... shit, I can't disclose that. You can probably figure it out anyway._

_Don't get pissy at people, please. They don't understand, but they're trying to. I know you miss me just as much as I miss you, but that's no reason to lash out at people._

_I love you, Sherlock, and I hope that compound works._

_John_

***

_March 24_

_You're probably gone now, over the mountains, as you said. Two months... I'd better hear from you._

_As for being 'pissy,' I would have that reaction to Mike anyway – he talks to me like he's talking to a wall, and the rest of them are idiots. Especially Anderson, the forensics man. He and that Sergeant are having an affair – every three weeks when his wife's away for work._

_It sounds like whoever is checking for bombs is almost as incompetent as Anderson, perhaps you should get someone new._

_Talk about anything, everything you want or can. God knows it's a sliver in my brain not knowing. Tell me what you had for breakfast, I don't care._

_Mrs Hudson says I still don't eat enough, but I've gained some weight I suppose. You can barely see the scar on my side now._

_It's almost like you weren't here at all John, can't find your scent anywhere. It's maddening, and I miss it. Sending a bit more of that shirt for you, it's kept under the duvet so hopefully it'll last in the post._

_Sherlock_

***

John received Sherlock's letter two days after the sending date, and he kept it tucked in his pocket with the others, promising himself to reply as soon as he could. They were out in the middle of nowhere now, and if it wasn't for the GPS in the Land Rover, he wouldn't even know the cardinal directions.

"How far out are we?" he asked his second in command – oh, right, he was a Captain now.  _Have to tell Sherlock about that_.

"Bout two kilometres, sir."

John nodded, reaching under his seat and pulling out his Osprey vest. "Pull her over. Someone radio in and tell them where we are and that we're proceeding by foot now. Tell them that radio silence is necessary, and to expect no word until sundown."

He checked his watch – that gave them five hours to get in, find something, anything, and report it back to base. Then they could determine whether or not it was necessary for them to remain out here. He pulled out the newest piece of fabric that Sherlock had sent, running it between the pads of his fingers. 

 _I miss you_.

"Alright, guys. Five hours starting now. Stick to your groups and cover each other." 

***

Sherlock was being patient, or so he thought. He thought he was; John said two months possibly, and he wouldn't allow himself to worry until then.

He kept working – murder, kidnapping, suspected murder but obvious suicide, and a suicide which turned out to be a quite obvious murder. Another kidnapping, with an… unexpected ending. Sherlock had killed someone – not intentionally, but he'd got the gun from him in a struggle and at that point it was either him or the murderer. He chose the murderer. Still, he couldn't help but think of John as he saw the man lying there, hole in his chest. 

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa now, plucking at his violin and scratching at the patch on his arm. Only one today; he didn't have a case on so that was all he needed. What he wanted though... God, he just wanted to stop thinking. For a minute. Something to just make it stop.

It was easier in that place, his survival instinct overwhelming it all, and then with John... well John had a way of making things quiet in his head. Perhaps, though, that was just because he'd just got out of that place and was transitioning. Maybe John being there wouldn't have helped. What if that was just a transitional period and eventually John would have tired of him?

He shook himself of the thought. That was ridiculous, and it wouldn't do to think of John that way. He swallowed, looking at the calendar on the wall, trying to deduce when John would write again, but he didn't have nearly enough variables to know.

***

They hadn't seen the first shot coming, and there was no time to react before the Land Rover ignited in a column of fire and gas.

Their ear pieces screeched and John ripped his out, yelling at his team to get down and find cover. They didn't know where the shot had come from, but some shelter was better than none. He grabbed Bill Murray, his nurse, and dragged him behind a rock, leaning back against it and pulling out his assault rifle, turning the safety off.

"Who has the Barrett, do you remember?" John asked, turning to Bill, who just shook his head, his eyes wide. "Stephen!" John called out for his Lieutenant, leaning around the rock. He got a reply back, but it was muffled. "Where's the Barrett?" Again, the response was muffled, but he heard the word 'vehicle' and he cursed. So they were without proper protection, now, too.

Another shot went off, large calibre, and John ducked instinctively.

"Granger's hit!" a voice yelled – female voice, so it had to be Alisa.

John moved without thinking, tearing out from behind the rock and running to where he could see Granger bleeding out on the ground. He dove down beside him, tying a quick tourniquet to the femoral wound and wrapping his arm around him. "Help me out," John murmured, lifting the dead weight of his comrade and starting to half-drag him towards a rock.

He never made it. 

Another shot. He felt his clavicle shatter, blood pour down his back, and he collapsed, gasping for breath that refused to enter his lungs. 

***

It had been three weeks, no… almost four. Sherlock was starting to worry more. Though it was mixed with annoyance as well. Surely he could have sent something to Mycroft through a commanding officer? A 'hey Sherlock, I'm still alive' message or something.

"Find out where he is, at least, and do something useful for once!" Sherlock snapped at his brother, hanging up on him and tossing his phone to the sofa. Something didn't feel right, and it was bothering him. He paced the room, looking at his skull on the mantle that he had retrieved from his old room at the manor, before crossing the room and lifting it up, grabbing the cigarettes from under them. He picked one up, lighting it and taking a long drag off of it, sighing as he exhaled. 

***

John collapsed back against a boulder a few days later, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. "I'm sorry; I need a break," he gasped, dropping his head back hard against the rock. He felt Murray's hand on his good shoulder – he couldn't move his other shoulder or arm. His left hand, his dominant hand, was useless. Good thing he was a better shot with his right hand.

"You're fine, don't worry about it," Bill murmured, taking out his canteen and forcing John to take a sip. He looked up at Stephen, exchanging a worried glance with the Lieutenant.

"I know," John gasped. "I still say you guys should just go on your own. You'd get there faster." He cracked his eyes open, groaning when he turned his head to throw a glare at Stephen.

"Shut up, John. We're not leaving you," was all he got as a reply, and Bill dragged him up and supported him.

"We need to keep moving. I'll carry your arse if I have to."

***

_Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently as he waited in the airport, looking up at the gate saying the flight had arrived. He stood on his toes a little, watching the men and women come out of it. He didn't see John, though. He turned his head and saw another gate that people were coming through, all dressed in fatigues. Sherlock moved over to that one, looking at them, searching. They all looked so tired, worn out and numb. Sherlock felt his chest swell when he recognised the blond hair, and he dashed over to John, wrapping his arms around him. He didn't feel an embrace though, and pulled back to see John staring right through him. Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking at John's face, which was pale, and not tanned like it had been. He blinked, suddenly seeing the red that was blooming out of the middle of John's chest. He took a step back, horrified, looking around to see all the other passengers also had similar injury and expression. His heart felt like it stopped when they all disappeared, including John, and he was surrounded by a warehouse full of caskets, one to his side with his hand resting on it, the name John Watson on it._

Sherlock jerked awake in bed, covered in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt as if a name had just been on his lips, and he didn't have to try and remember what it was, he already knew.

Sherlock curled up in the centre of the bed, still refusing to allow any emotion to bubble up, stuffing it all down as he bit down on his hand.

***

"Stop, stop," John gasped, his knees giving out beneath him, all that was now holding him upright being Bill. "I can't." He squeezed his eyes shut, panting for breath at the scrape of his re-broken clavicle. He had had to re-break it for the second time yesterday, because it wasn't healing properly and he had nothing he could use to set it.

They'd been wandering around out here for over a month now with no sense of direction. John felt like they were being herded, because every so often they would hear gunfire and head off in the opposite direction. They were properly lost, and John kept bleeding whenever he re-broke his collarbone.

"You can't give up, John," Bill told him, but John was to the point of not caring about himself.

He was slowing his men down – the only two survivors of his team, which had been eight strong – and he couldn't stand for that.

John shook his head. "Leave me, please." His chest constricted when he thought of Sherlock, as he had been constantly. "I'm ordering you to leave me."

Both Stephen and Bill shook their heads. "Sorry, Captain, but I'm going to decline to obey that order on the grounds that you're delusional from pain and blood loss."

"I'm not delusional," John snapped, panting for air when he jostled his shoulder.

"I know," Bill said, steadying him, "but that's what I'm going to say in the report when we get back."

***

It was reaching the month and a half mark and Sherlock was even more irritated with everyone. He was full on smoking again, and pacing a crime scene when he heard his phone go off. He ignored it; as it wasn't his email, he didn't care. It went off several more times before he finally looked at it, rolling his eyes. 

_Sherlock. MH_

_Answer your texts. MH_

_There's something you need to know. MH_

Sherlock felt his stomach clench a little, but he shook it off, walking back to Baker Street since it was close. He was intercepted by a black car, and he climbed inside of it, ready to snap at Mycroft, but his words died in his throat when he saw the thick file, and a letter in his lap.

"This came in the mail for you today," Mycroft said, handing the official British Army envelope over to Sherlock. "Apparently you were listed as his first contact, as he didn't have any contact information for his family."

Sherlock didn't feel anything, except for the weight of the letter in his hand.

"His squad is being classified as missing in action. They're not sure where they are, and have been searching for them since they failed to respond at their rendezvous." Mycroft hesitated, looking at Sherlock. "Their vehicle was found exploded, but there was no one in it, and there was... blood. At this point... they are working under the assumption that he is either a prisoner of war, or killed in action."

Well that was Mycroft, always so to the point, though Sherlock could tell that he was _attempting_ to be gentle, almost.

"Stop the car," Sherlock said, his voice flat. It was too much, but at the same time, what else should he have expected? He'd warned himself against sentiment from the beginning, and especially with John. And he fell too easily into the snare of it. He shouldn't have, this was the result, and Sherlock felt cracked in two.

Sherlock pocketed the letter, climbing out of the car. He turned his head back, though he didn't look back at Mycroft. "You find him... and bring him home, even if it's in a box.... you're not going to let him rot in that desert," he said, walking away and turning down an alley. Sherlock made it a few kilometres walking numbly towards the water front before he started shouting, swearing, and tearing at his hair. 

***

"What the hell is that?"

John cracked his eyes open at the sound of Stephen's voice. He could barely see, his vision foggy from blood loss. He could feel himself dying – his heart rate was slowed severely, his breathing shallow and raspy. 

 _Better this way_.

They had stopped because John couldn't go on anymore, and they knew that pushing him would kill him faster. They'd been holed up in this small cave for the last five days, Bill tending John's wounds and Stephen keeping watch at the mouth of the cave.

Now something had caught Stephen’s attention, making him stand up and aim his gun. "Go," John croaked, pushing Bill towards where Stephen was standing – two pairs of eyes was better than one.

John laid still, ignoring the gentle stream of blood trickling down his back and chest.  _Bleeding from both sides now. At least it was a through-and-through_ , he reminded himself, for probably the fiftieth time.

"John!" Bill yelled, running back to his side, a huge grin on his face.

John squinted at him, wondering why he was smiling.

"What is it, Murray?" he asked, his voice a shallow breath.

Bill grinned, stooping over to lift John up. "They found us. It's a chopper; definitely one of ours." 

 _Mycroft._ The name went through John's mind rapidly, but he knew it had to be true.

Stephen was outside, flagging down the chopper, when he suddenly jerked forward, falling to the ground and not moving.

"Back!" John yelled at Bill, knowing that the killing shot had come from the mountain behind them. 

***

Sherlock ignored them all. The calls, the knocks at the door, Lestrade calling up that he had a triple murder, all of them.

He couldn't shut it all off, he just couldn't, and for a week after finding out, he simply laid in the flat. The compound he'd made had worked, and his heat cycle never showed its face. Probably for the better; Sherlock probably would have offed himself – that would have made it so much worse. He felt... well he didn't want to feel, and he didn't want to think, so that was when he had the idea.

He'd been given some at the auction house, and knew it would fix it.

He left the flat, and his phone, everything when he went to go find it, taking only the money he'd pulled out of his account. He didn't want to deal with them all right now, and it was better if he just disappeared.

The first time he used some of it, he knew it was the right decision, all the worry and hurt just leaking out of him, and he couldn't think. It was perfect. He'd taken up residence the next week in a rundown warehouse among his fellow degenerates, passing as a Beta as it turned out, his suppressants working better than he could have hoped, not that he cared to write down data. 

Sherlock moved from building to building, noting the slowly warming weather, and he felt himself content of sorts, he supposed. It was perfect, and he was drifting when he suddenly heard someone yelling at him, shouting even.

He opened his eyes from where he was, and saw the angry face of Lestrade. "Been looking for you everywhere!....brother half mad with worry, trying to find J..."

Sherlock faded back out then, waking up again in a hospital, only it wasn't the right kind. 

When he was more alert, he walked over to the door of his room, trying to yank it open – locked. It didn't take him long to realise where he was, and what he'd no longer get.

***

The gunman on the chopper took down the armed men on the mountainside. Bill practically carried John to the chopper. There was a medic on board.

John made Murray go back and pick up Stephen's body – something to send home to his family. Then he passed out, dizzy and disoriented, only able to think _please, God, let me live. I want to see him again_.

John woke up in a hospital bed, his arm in a sling resting against his chest. The lights in the room were too bright, so he closed his eyes. 

_Am I dead?_

"I can assure you that you're very much alive."

John started at the voice, not realising that he had spoken out loud. The Major sat beside his bed. Bill was passed out in a chair in the corner.

"Sir," John said, nodding briskly.

"Don't, John," the Major told him. "Don't call me that."

John cocked his head but didn't comment. "What are you doing here, sir?" he asked, wincing when he shifted and moved his shoulder.

"You're being sent home, John. As soon as you can walk, you're getting on a plane. Can't risk your shoulder acting up and causing you your life next time."

John opened his mouth to protest, but he knew a favour was being dealt to him. "Yes, sir," he nodded again, and, after shaking his hand, the Major got up to leave.

***

It took two days before Sherlock snapped, throwing himself against the wall of the room, shouting at them, even begging for it. He couldn't think, pounding his fists against the door.

He felt horrible, and almost like dying, throwing up every couple hours, body screaming for it. He eventually did cry, though, and at that point, he couldn't think what for.

After that he was quiet, and pushed away thoughts of  _it_  and of  _him._  He couldn't have either, and the sooner he buried that, the better. They made him talk to doctors, and he did, staying factual and stating things as they were, doing their little tests.

A week later, Mycroft saw to it that he was let out, but he didn't say a word to Sherlock, not that he wanted to hear it.

He went home, played the violin, took cases, and talked to his skull. His compound having worked, he got to the flat the first time and hardly recognised his own scent; it was different when he took it. 

He looked at the letter that was on his belongings, the one they'd made him write when he was still in there, therapeutic they said. They didn't read it, saying that him having written it was enough. After a moment thought, he knew he didn't want to look at it, so he went to the mail box, and dropped it in. Knowing it would never reach him.

 

_June (possibly July)_

_Not sure what day it is, they don't exactly let you know here. Not that I have to go into a lot of detail, but Lestrade was vastly overreacting. Maybe I wanted to stay there, I was content enough, but no… one overdose and they lock you up._

_Things, I suppose, are getting better though... or perhaps I'm just saying that because the person watching me write this was looking over my shoulder as I wrote that. He was._

_No point in saying I miss you, that became a constant, and therefore ignorable. If it's always there, then there's no point in acknowledging something._

_The point is you're gone. And you will never read this letter, and I'll probably never send it. If they ever let me out of here – depends on when Mycroft's done with his power trip I suppose._

_I've reached the conclusion that I lost. I found myself somewhere that I don't want to be again, the losing side, and there's one thing that's a sure fire way to end up there, and that's caring. Sentiment. Better off alone, and they can leave me alone. It's what I have, and it protects me._

_They wanted me to write this, calling it therapy, a way to say good bye or something. I hated that word months ago, and still do now, but that's what it feels like, and I never did say goodbye to my parents so..._

_Goodbye John._

_Sherlock_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super late posting today, guys. I forgot it was Monday, and I haven't been in the house pretty much all day. Here's your bi-daily dose of tears :)

John was walking – limping – now. He needed a cane, which pissed him off to no end. His right leg kept acting up and it hurt like a bitch, but neither the doctors nor his therapist believed him, calling it psychosomatic. Bastards, all of them, but John ignored it and them, knowing that the more he cooperated the faster he would get discharged and the sooner he could go home.

Murray had been reassigned two weeks ago, right after John's shoulder had officially healed. It was mid-August now, apparently. Not even a year, and yet it felt like a lifetime.

"Letter for you, Captain Watson."

John paused his daily walk down the hall to turn to an orderly. "Thanks," he murmured, taking the letter and walking back to his room. He sat down heavily on his bed, rubbing his leg as he looked at the envelope. When he saw who it was from, he ripped it open.

Confusion, fear, worry. Accurate descriptions of what he felt as he read Sherlock's elegant scroll. Tears pricked his eyes before he had finished, and he jumped off the bed, grabbing his cane and making for the front desk as quickly as possible.

"I'm leaving," he called over his shoulder before exiting the building. He flagged down a passing vehicle and had himself dropped off at HQ, where he had a heated and quick conversation with the Major, who finally agreed to let him go.

He was on a plane within seven hours.

***

Sherlock texted the details of the case to Lestrade, having solved it by seeing a detail on the news that everyone missed.

He sighed, plucking a little at his violin. He picked at the patch on his arm, noting the bruising and scars in the crooks of his arms. He sighed, reclining on the sofa.

It was a little while later that he got a little antsy and decided to go to Bart's lab. He pulled on his coat and left, hailing a cab and riding to the hospital, letting himself into the lab and starting in on the petri dishes he'd left out the other day.

***

John got off the plane and jumped into a cab, catching himself before he screamed the address at the cabbie. He was so close – barely a twenty minute drive away.

As soon as the cab pulled up, John tossed a twenty at him and ran for the door, only to remember that he had given his keys to Sherlock all those months ago. He pounded on the door, listening as light heel clicks approached and Mrs Hudson opened the door. He pushed past her, apologising and went up the steps, pushing his way into the flat.

He froze just inside of the door. The space smelled different; not like Sherlock. He took a step inside, closing the door behind him as he looked around. Almost nothing had changed, really, except the smell.

And Sherlock wasn't there.

He took out his phone, the only personal possession he had been allowed to keep, and sent a text to Sherlock.

 

_Come home. JW_

***

Sherlock sighed when he heard his phone go off, not bothering to reach into his pocket to look at it. He didn't need Mycroft or Lestrade breathing down his neck more than they already did.

Molly came by a little later before her shift ended (having been working upstairs for the day), and tagged a new body, which Sherlock looked at. Heart attack, but still interesting none the less.

He stayed in the morgue well after hours, ignoring his phone when it went off again, anything his brother had to say could wait until he was damn well ready to deal with it. It was probably boring anyway.

Sherlock was stretched out on one of the metal slabs in a thinking pose, going over in his mind the different cases he'd done, the cold cases he was going through, as well as an ongoing one with another serial killer. He liked it in the morgue, it was quiet, even when Molly was there, as she quickly learned not to try and make conversation with him.

***

John had collapsed in his chair, staring blankly at the fireplace. He wondered why Sherlock wasn't answering him, or even where he was. 

 _What if he's dead?_ No. No, he refused to even entertain that possibility, though that's where all the facts seemed to be pointing. He took his phone out again, staring at the screen and the lack of replies, before he hit the first button for speed dial and called Sherlock's phone. It rang out.

"Oh my god, pick up your damn phone, you arse." John left a message before hanging up and immediately calling again, beginning to get worried.

***

Sherlock sighed, trying to think. It wasn't easy with his phone going off nonstop. He heard it ring again, and he lifted it up to his ear. "Mycroft, I swear, you keep calling me and I'll drop of the surface of the planet again, somewhere your mate won't be able to find me!" he snapped, voice cold before he hung up, pocketing it again and sighing. He situated himself on the cold slab again, trying to think still.

***

John jumped when Sherlock answered, relieved to hear his voice but startled by what he said.

He called Molly. "Is Sherlock there?" he asked, knowing that the mortician often stayed after-hours.

"John! When did you get back?"

"Molly,  _please_."

He heard her sigh. "Yes, he's here," she admitted, and he was fairly sure he could hear her walking.

"Good," he said, his voice sharp, military. "Give him the phone and tell him it's me, and if he doesn't answer, I'm leaving."

***

Sherlock heard footsteps down the hall, turning his head a little to hear the door open. Molly...

"Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed, sitting up and looking at Molly, who was holding a phone. She bit her lip, stammering a little.

"Molly, I'm not in the mood for conversation, and I don't care if Mycroft called you," he said, jumping up off the slab. "I believe it's after hours, you'd best go home; I'm working," he said, moving into the lab and shutting the door. He locked it, closing the blinds, ignoring Molly stammering.

"No, Sherlock it's…"

The door was shut though, and he was focusing on his acid and thumbs.

***

"He walked away, locked himself in the lab. He won't open the door," Molly explained, and John cursed quietly.

"Why is he being such a stubborn arse?" John grumbled, pushing himself to his feet, still dressed in camouflage trousers and a tan shirt, and walked for the door.

"Well, we've all thought you dead for the last few months," Molly whispered, so quietly John almost didn't hear her.

"What?" John froze at the top of the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane. "Don't let him out of that room. I'm coming down there." He hung up, moving down the stairs as quickly as he could and hailing a cab once he was on the street.

***

Sherlock could still hear Molly outside, and he rolled his eyes. He sighed, continuing working, though, eventually hearing her leave the morgue. He sat up again, peeking through the blinds to see the room empty.

He turned back to the lab work bench and started cleaning up. He had to let the thumbs soak overnight anyway.

***

John jumped out of the cab, barely remembering to pay the cabbie before he limped inside, taking the lift down to the morgue. Molly met him in the hallway, her expression turning to worry when she noticed his cane.

"Not now," John held up his hand, walking past her and to the door of the lab. He raised his fist, banging on it sharply three times. "Sherlock Holmes, open this door. Right now. Christ, I haven't seen you in nine months and now you're ignoring me?"

Sherlock's face twisted into one of anger when he heard someone pounding on the door, but it fell off as soon as he heard who it was that was shouting.

Sherlock stiffened, his thoughts slamming to a halt as he tried to rationalise it. That wasn't possible. John was gone, dead. Mycroft would have told him.

Would he, though? Sherlock had been ignoring his calls for the most part at first, and Mycroft had seen fit to punish him for the stint with the heroin. But to this extent?

Sherlock pulled out his phone, looking at the texts and the calls, not having bothered looked at the caller ID when he answered last and yelled at what he thought had been his brother. He didn't move from where he was, frozen in place as he looked at the door.

"Sherlock," John rested his forehead against the door, pressing his palm against the wood. "Sherlock,  _please_. Please open up." All of his anger at being ignored seeped away, replaced by exhaustion and pent-up emotion. His left hand started shaking, and he clenched it.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John breathed, his voice breaking. 

Sherlock backed away from the door; no… no, he'd worked not to feel this again, it wasn't fair. That wasn't right, and that couldn't be John. He backed into the counter, his elbow knocking over a few empty vials which fell to the floor and smashed just before he slipped down the cupboards, his knees giving out and folding to his chest, glass digging into his palm. 

Molly edged into the morgue, clearing her throat a little. Not wanting to intrude she walked over and left her lab key next to John before scurrying out.

John smiled gratefully at Molly, picking up the key and turning it in the lock before it really even registered in his head what he was doing. He pushed open the door, freezing just over the threshold.

He stared at Sherlock, who wasn't the same person he had left. But of course, John wasn't the same either.

"Love?" John whispered, his gaze flickering over the blood that was pooling on the floor from Sherlock's palm. He resisted the urge to step forward, clearly able to see how frightened Sherlock was and not wanting to spook him more.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to the door when it opened, waiting to yell at Lestrade or Anderson or whoever was doing this to him but his expression was frozen once more. John was standing there, in the same fatigues he'd seen in that dream months ago. That wasn't fair, how many times did that even have to happen, his mind was... he was fine! He'd been doing fine!

Sherlock’s thoughts were screaming at him, not even noticing the spreading warmth under his hand. He looked down, his fingers weaving up into his hair, glass embedded and bleeding palm pressing up to his head as he tried to think, pulling away into his mind palace. Too much, couldn't... wasn't prepared to handle... He felt warmth moving from his hand past his ear and cheek but ignored it.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, trying to run forward, but his damn leg wouldn't let him move that fast. Eventually he lowered himself down beside the Omega, gently taking his hands from his hair and holding them, stroking his thumbs over his knuckles like he had done all those months ago.

"Sherlock, love, look at me." John ignored the tears running down his cheeks, shifting his hold on Sherlock's hands so that he could reach up and cup his cheek, turning his head so that Sherlock could see him.

John leant forward before Sherlock could pull away, capturing the Omega's lips in his. Taste and scent surrounded him, not quite Sherlock's, but not anyone else's, either, and he knew his scent was reaching Sherlock the same way. "It's me, love. I promise."

Sherlock tensed when he felt hands on him, wanting to pull away; he didn't like being touched. His eyes didn't focus when his head was titled up, staring straight through John, not seeing him. It was the warmth that was pressed against his lips that started to drag him out of his head, and he took a breath, which felt like the first he had taken since the door had opened.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, eyes focusing and seeing the cornflower blue eyes in front of his, hearing that voice again. His head jerked back more to be able to see and slammed into the cupboard. He flinched, face and hair already smeared with his blood, though his right hand moved up to cup the back of his head. He blinked a few times, seeing spots, though instead of clearing they just spread, mixing with the fact that he'd forgotten how to breathe, apparently, and he went limp, falling sideways onto the pile of glass. 

John flinched when Sherlock landed hard on his side. "Damn it, Sherlock," he murmured, reaching down to gently pull him up into a sitting position. "Molly! Can you get someone down here, please?" He waited, knowing Molly was still around, and eventually she trotted into the room, pausing on the other side of the threshold.

Molly nodded quickly, turning to race out of the room. Five minutes later, two orderlies came into the room with a stretcher, gingerly lifting Sherlock onto it.

John let them get ahead of him, taking the second lift up to the lobby. He checked in at the desk, asking to be alerted when Sherlock was in a room, and retired to the waiting room, slumping down in a chair and dropping his head in his right hand, his left still shaking.

Twenty minutes later a nurse came out, tapping John on the shoulder gently. "Excuse me, sir? He's in a room," she said quietly, gesturing for John to follow. "Got his hand taken care of, and he's got a bit of a nasty bump on his head. Poor thing was in a panic when he woke up, though. Got a bit of a tongue on him, doesn't he?" she asked, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, ignoring the comment the patient had made.

"Orderlies gave him something to settle him down, took a bit of it too. Not sure why the private room. He's just here," she said, gesturing to a door.

Standing outside it, though, was Mycroft. He looked at John steadily. "Welcome back, Captain Watson," he said, standing in front of the door. "Amusing, we keep meeting like this," he said.

John stopped in front of Mycroft, squaring his shoulders despite his cane. He thanked the nurse, watching her walk away and turning back to Mycroft. "I suppose I should thank you," he said. "For watching him, for finding me." He clenched his jaw, not wanting to think about the desert he had just left behind. "I want to see him."

"Your thanks is not needed; my actions were all for my brother's sake. Though, as I know I will get no such thanks from him, yours will suffice," Mycroft said. "I realise, John, that you have been to hell and back, as the phrase goes, but my brother... well, hell is a place with which it seems he is content to stay. A lot has happened," he said. "I'm not sure how much you know, since the last correspondence I carried from my brother to have sent directly to you was before your disappearance."

John swallowed, ducking his head. "I got a letter from him yesterday. I don't think I was exactly meant to get it, though. He didn't say anything specific... but, he mentioned hating people and preferring to be alone. And, if I recall, something about an overdose."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, an overdose, for which he has only been out of hospital for not even three weeks."

Mycroft sighed. "No doubt the letter was something they had him write. I suppose I may have been a bit harsh on him, but he would not accept comfort from me even if I did attempt to give it. I knew of your recovery, however I was not informed of your discharge today," he said, a somewhat disappointed tone to his voice.

John looked back up, meeting Mycroft's gaze levelly. "If you think I'm going to love him any less or walk away from him, you're wrong. He's nineteen and scared and alone because he won't let anyone in. I'm not the same man I was, and I will stick on his arse until he grudgingly accepts that I'm not leaving, and he'll just have to deal with it."

"I did not tell him you were alive, John. Perhaps you should realise that my brother is damaged, most likely irreparably so. A little more than a week of what normal could be with you in between everything that has happened to him cannot hope to fix him. He built something somewhat stable... and now, what foundation he had seems gone," Mycroft said, turning to look at the hospital room door.

John swallowed thickly, hating himself for leaving even more than he had previously. "I don't care," he whispered, shaking his head. Then louder, "I honestly don't care. I have been nine months without him, in the desert, killing people and ignoring everything that happened to me so that I could get back here, back to  _him_. And now you're telling me that he's built something new and moved on? No, I refuse to accept that. Where have you been his whole life? Don't you remember his habit of going into his head when he can't accept things? He's hiding in a reality that he created as punishment for himself, and he is going to stay there until he's ripped from it. It's a slow process, and it hurts like a bitch, but I am  _not_  going to watch him push everyone else away just because he thinks I'm dead. Not when I can fix it."

John stared at Mycroft, daring him to say anything against him. 

Mycroft stood his ground in front of the door, setting his jaw as he felt the challenge rolling off of John, obviously hitting a bit of a nerve with the other Alpha, and it set Mycroft himself on edge. He'd almost lost Sherlock again, and the first time was more than enough. He wouldn't let anything else happen to him.

"You forget, John, you transferred Sherlock's ownership to himself. You have no bond, and therefore no claim. As his next blood kin, I have medical decision over him, and if I should say so, he can be taken from here somewhere safe, and not even your credentials can get you to him," Mycroft said calmly.

"I didn't forget a damn thing. And Sherlock's an adult; you have no decisions over him, nor does anyone else, seeing as he still has a functioning brain and isn't in a vegetative state."  _God forbid that ever happened_. "It takes time to transfer anyway. And I'm going to see him until you decide what you're going to do." John pushed past a very resistant Mycroft, walking up to the bed and sitting in the chair beside it. "Now piss off. Leave me alone with him until you decide to ruin both of our lives again."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at John, and then to Sherlock before backing away from the door. "As you wish. He'll be able to leave when you're both ready, but do not forget that I'm watching," he said before leaving, the door shutting behind him.

*** 

Sherlock's thoughts were sluggish, and not even the nice kind like before, when he'd had it. He shifted on the bed a little, the familiar smell of hospital filling his nostrils, as well as... he froze, breath catching a little before he dragged his eyes open slowly, seeing the impossible again.

"Don't," John said as soon as he saw Sherlock's eyes open. "Don't say anything, and don't freak out again, please." He drew his good leg up to his chest, hugging it tightly. "It's really me, I promise. You're a deducer; do us both a favour and run the facts and statistics through your head. Tell me what you come up with."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, still looking at him. It looked like John, it did, tanner, bit thin. He almost looked as if he had a few grey hairs, but that could just be the drugs they'd given him. _Not even the good kind._ He shifted in the bed, looking down and seeing a small drip in his hand, leading up to a bag of fluids. He sighed; they always thought he was starved or something, he just didn't eat when he had a case, slowed him down.

Sherlock sat up slowly, tugging the needle out of his hand. He felt a bandage on each arm – so they'd tried there first, of course they wouldn't find any good veins, they were all shot to hell. He glanced over at John again.

"Presumed dead, not actually so. Nothing to deduce," Sherlock said, not mentioning what happened in the lab, not sure where that had come from. He tucked that away, running his left hand over his bandaged up right one.

John bit his lip, leaning forward to run his hand slowly and gently through Sherlock's wild curls. "You cut your hair," he noted in a whisper, pulling his hand back and taking Sherlock's bandaged hand in his, looking over the white bandage. "They did this wrong," he muttered, unwrapping it and doing it correctly.

Sherlock didn't move as than hand moved through his hair, swallowing. He could smell John's scent, familiar, nearly forgotten, but it didn't feel the same as it had. He looked at his hand when it was unwrapped, stitches in three places. He sighed, watching as the tan hands expertly bound it again. "I'll just be removing them anyway tomorrow," he said with a shrug.

"You don't smell like you anymore. What's with that?" John asked, glancing up at Sherlock when he leant back, absently rubbing his leg.

Sherlock glanced up at John again, though not meeting his eyes as he took his hand back, not used to being touched. "My suppressants that I made. Side effect, pass as a Beta, though I smell nothing like one. Other people's scents also don't affect me much either. Which suits things fine. I stay out of their world, and they stay out of mine. Prefer it actually," he said.

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves, ignoring the turmoil he could feel bubbling a little in his chest as he pulled the irritating bandages off his arms, his scars and bruising visible.

John swallowed thickly, covering his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes hard. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, bringing his eyes back up to meet Sherlock's. He blinked and looked away when tears fell down his cheeks. "I shouldn't have left you. I shouldn't have done a lot of things."

John couldn't handle seeing Sherlock like this, and he pushed to his feet, gripping his cane tightly and leaning heavily on it, his leg hurting as bad as it ever had. He winced, his hand shaking bad enough that even clenching it didn't help. Maybe Mycroft had been right. "You know I'm alive now," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice from trembling. "So at least stop living like I'm dead."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, pulling his sleeves down and looking up at John. "I'm living the only way I know how to," he said.

Sherlock looked John over, using a cane, intermittent tremor in his left hand, his leg wasn't injured though, shoulder... left one. Limp psychosomatic then. He looked down, realising that the way John was looking at him, the others didn't look at him like that. They took that as how he was, but John saw him before that. And Mycroft knew him before the accident. They both knew he could have done better, only Mycroft doesn't expect it like John seemed to.

"I don't... _didn't_... know how to. So I made do," Sherlock said. "I admit there was a moment when I..." he rubbed his arms gently. "Did a bit not good," he said quietly. "But I worked with what I had after that place... and then after you," he said, eyes on the floor. He forced himself to stay numb, not wanting to come close to losing, or appear he was going to while still in the hospital.

"The least you could do," John whispered, looking away and leaning heavier on his cane, "is not lie to me." He shifted his weight and swallowed, trying not to get mad at Sherlock. "You know how else to live, you're just choosing not to. Did you not give... a  _second_  of thought to what I would have wanted? Every day out... there, I thought about you, thought about what you would do or say to every decision I made. I got  _shot_ , and my first thought was that you would get pissed at me for not listening to you, not that you would just... lie down on the road and give up!" He bit his lip, full on crying now. "You think this is living, and you're wrong. I don't care how intelligent you are, you're wrong if you think that this is your only option."

Sherlock flinched a little, unable to help the slight curl into himself. With John, he felt almost like a child who'd done something wrong. His eyes burned a little, and he blinked a few times to stop them from tearing up at all.

"I... I did not have the luxury of knowing you would be left behind being upset with me. I'm not religious John – you were gone. You weren't anywhere looking down on me to complain later if I did something stupid," Sherlock murmured. "I work, I eat... I even play my violin from time to time," he said, though he hadn't composed since that last piece for John. "How is it not living?"

"Living is what you did before I left. Living is not keeping to yourself and snapping at the people who try to help you. That's surviving, and living is the opposite. Living is getting hurt, feeling the pain, and then moving on from it, because that's what we do. We continue to live for those who can't." John retook his seat, nearly collapsing in it, his leg practically giving out underneath him.

Sherlock curled his knees to his chest, looking at John. "Don't get onto me about surviving, because you did it to," he said, though admittedly that was all John could do in that place.

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, finally looking up at John. "Why didn't you look back? At the gate, when you left..."

"I wanted to," John whispered. "God, it killed me not to. But I knew... I knew if I saw you one more time that I would have ran back to you. I never would have got on that plane. Perhaps that's what I should have done."

Sherlock sighed, resting the side of his head against his knees and looking at John still. "They shot your shoulder... old wound, re-broken once… no, twice. Got infected, no actual injury to your leg though," he said. "They think it's psychosomatic, correct too, in that respect."

Sherlock swallowed, not sure what to say. He was quiet for a moment, thinking and carefully sifting through his thoughts surrounding John; he hadn't tread there in a while. "I... I missed you," he said finally.

John smiled despite himself, wiping at his cheeks to dispel the tears. "God, I missed you too. I missed you doing that," he said, gesturing at Sherlock in a way that was supposed to indicate his deduction.

"There's a lot that happened that I should tell you, when you're ready to hear it. All the things I never told you in my letters." John wiped at his eyes again, reaching forward to comb through Sherlock's hair, stopping himself before he touched him. He gave Sherlock a questioning look, asking for permission.

Sherlock blinked once, chewing at the inside of his lip a little before he slowly reached up, hand trembling slightly before he guided John's hand into his hair, which still had dried blood in it from his hand. He let out a breath, it was fine, would be fine, and... felt fine. More than fine. Good even; still, he wished it felt the same. Must be his suppressants.

"Are you... that is, have you gone back to the flat?" Sherlock asked, wondering if John saw his equipment in the kitchen. He thought about the severed head in the fridge; would John be okay with that? If he was even coming back to the flat at all.

John closed his eyes, carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls, massaging gently at his scalp. "I went there, yeah. I don't... have anything, any possessions, so I don't have to stay if you don't want me there." It killed him to say it, but it was possible that moving back in would be too much. "I can call up Mike or something," he murmured, swallowing thickly.

Sherlock straightened up a little, John's hand coming from his hair. "You didn't take anything with you John, and... I didn't get rid of any of your things. It was your flat, I was only ever living there," he said. He got out of the bed carefully, crossing over to his coat and pulling out his keys, John's keys. He walked back over and took John's wrist, placing the keys in his hand. "Don't bother calling Mike. You're going home," he said.

John pushed to his feet, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and holding him. "See?" he whispered. "You're still you, buried somewhere under all of this." He reached up, running his fingers gently through the shorter strands of Sherlock's hair at the base of his skull.

Sherlock held still as John's arms wrapped around him, swallowing thickly. He looked to the side. "There's nothing buried; I'm just me," he mumbled quietly, stepping back a minute later to pull on his coat.

"You're coming home, too, right?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. "It's not... it's not home without you, anymore."

Sherlock scratched his neck a little, letting out a breath. "Had planned on it I suppose. My violin's there, and my skull," he said, turning towards the door and tugging it open. "Can't stand it here, let's just leave?" 

John snatched up his cane, limping over to where Sherlock stood by the door. "Don't be in such a rush," he teased. "I'm not as fast as I used to be." He followed Sherlock outside, and no one tried to stop them. 

Sherlock glanced at John's cane and slowed his pace slightly, walking down the hall. He looked at John again as they waited for the cab, John not leaning on his cane as he stood. Definitely psychosomatic.

 _No, you're not the same_. John watched Sherlock as he hailed a cab, taking note of how mature he looked. They had both gone through hell, and he doubted either of them was quite out of it yet.

Sherlock slid into the cab, waiting for John to do so as well before they set back towards the flat. "Don't open the fridge," he said after a few minutes. "At the flat, just don't, I have to take care of something. And I have to clear out that compound I'm developing. Having some side effects I didn't want, so I'm starting from scratch," he said. He'd stopped taking it the other day, and he wondered when the other effects would wear off as well.

John slid into the cab after Sherlock, settling in beside him. He raised his eyebrows at the comment about the fridge, but he didn't say anything. "Why don't you just stop taking it?" he asked quietly, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "I can understand why you started, but why... why continue them?"

Sherlock looked over at John, and then out the window again. "Because of what it can mean for other Omegas," he said. "It can greatly decrease the amount of kidnappings. Rather than hiding in the country or rushing out to find a bondmate, they can choose a more normal life, wait things out while the laws change or do what they want without heat cycles getting in the way." He blinked, catching John's meaning. "And it's not as if I have another person to test it on," he said quietly.

John nodded wordlessly, understanding why it was so important to Sherlock.

John stared out of the window, watching London flash past, the buildings and pavement now so vastly different than what he had grown accustomed to. Eventually, they pulled up to the flat, and John got out, walking up to the door and unlocking it, stepping over the threshold. He climbed the stairs, walking immediately into the bedroom and over to the chest of drawers, pulling out a jumper and a pair of track pants and pulling them on.

Sherlock followed John up the stairs, watching him go down the hall to the bedroom. He sighed, waiting a little bit to give him space. While he did so, he grabbed the severed head from the fridge and shoved it into the sealed bag that Molly gave him. He then put it in a paper bag to cover it and stuck it back in the fridge. He couldn't just toss it out in the skip out back.

John’s dog tags were jostled while he changed tops, and he pulled them out of the collar of the jumper, sitting down on the bed to study them. Wincing slightly, he pulled a stack of papers from the trousers he had just taken off, looking at Sherlock's letters and finally settling on the list of names and birthdays. He wrote down the members of his team, which he hadn't yet got a chance to do, and just stared at the list.

Fifty-three. Far too many.

Sherlock threw out the compound he had before slowly going down the hall, peering in at John, and seeing the letters spread out on the bed, as well as the two scraps from his silk shirt. He blinked. "You... you kept them," he said quietly, wondering what John was looking at, not recognising his own handwriting.

John jumped at Sherlock's voice, quickly folding the list and stuffing it in his pocket. He looked at the letters, the pieces of fabric, then back up at Sherlock. "Of course I kept them," he whispered, picking them up and standing, ignoring the jingle of his tags that he was now accustomed to as he walked over to his nightstand, setting the letters on top of it. "I re-read them every day. Most days, they were the only things that kept me sane, because I knew I had a reason to keep living."

Sherlock let out a breath, wetting his lips. "I have yours," he said quietly – they were tucked away where he never looked at them recently, but he couldn't... and wouldn't get rid of them. He moved over towards John, lifting his tags up and looking at them before he sat down on the bed.

"I can't smell you," Sherlock said quietly, a small tone of regret in his voice. He wanted that feeling of comfort that he hadn't felt in what seemed like a lifetime, but what if he never got that back? What if it wasn't the same even when he could know John's scent again? 

John sat down beside him, leaning a little against him, needing the touch, the comfort. "Well, you don't smell like you. It's probably the suppressants you're taking," he suggested, leaning over to inhale near Sherlock's neck. "Yeah, definitely not the same. It's muted, not as sharp or rich."

John sighed, squeezing Sherlock's hand and standing up again. "I'm going to go put sheets on the bed upstairs. I can sleep there."

Sherlock tugged John's right arm down as soon as he stood to make him sit again. "No, I told you, it's your flat. And besides, you've been injured, I'll not have you going up the stairs," he said quietly. He looked at the bed. "The sofa is well enough for me, I sleep out there most nights anyway thinking," he said with a shrug. If John was so opposed to the idea of sharing with him, he didn't mind the sofa. 

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not kicking you out on the sofa. I'll sleep out there."

"God if ever there was anyone as stubborn as me, it's you, John Watson," Sherlock said and huffed a breath, looking towards the door.

John studied Sherlock's features, the expression behind his eyes. "Unless you..." he swallowed, the thought ludicrous after what they had gone through and with how Sherlock acted around people. "Unless you'd rather share with me," he whispered, unable to stop the hope blooming up in his chest that Sherlock would want to. "I'm tired of being away from you." He gripped Sherlock's fingers, glancing back up at him.

Sherlock blinked a few times when he felt a hand close around his fingers, and he looked at their hands, then up at John. He let out a breath, swallowing before looking at the bed. He wasn't sure what to do, or think, but before he could try to do so, his mouth was already moving, factual as ever while he tried to sort out his... feelings.

"It is a large enough bed," Sherlock said, still confused almost at how easily he could feel something churning in his chest where normally it was stomped out before he could even tell.

John smiled a little. "Yeah, that it is." He sighed, squeezing Sherlock's hand and standing up again. "I'm just making tea. I need to wind down before I can even start thinking about bed."

John limped into the kitchen, turning on the kettle and reaching into the cupboard for a teabag, which, thankfully, seemed to be fully stocked. When the water boiled, he poured some over the tea, letting it steep before making his way into the living room, sitting down heavily in his chair.

Sherlock stayed sitting on the bed, listening to John bustle about the kitchen. It was odd, hearing someone around the flat again.

After a little while, Sherlock stood up, moving into the living room and sitting across from John, picking up his violin and plucking at it gently. He hadn't played in a little while, and he hadn't composed in ages. Grabbing his rosin, he took up his bow, rubbing it onto it gently.

John sipped his tea slowly, watching Sherlock while he worked the bow, listening closely as he plucked to instrument. "I still have the SD card," he said, staring down at the Earl Grey tea in his mug. "It's in my phone; never took it out. I listened to it at night while I was reading your letters." He took another sip of the tea, enjoying the sweetness of it as opposed to the bitter coffee he had been drinking for the last nine months.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up a fraction, "I'm glad you liked it," he said quietly. "It... was the last song I wrote," he said, looking down at the instrument in his hands. "It just stopped," he said quietly.

Sherlock looked over at John. "You look right in place with that heinous jumper," he said quietly, his mouth tugging a small bit in the same corner again. "Perhaps I should have puked blood on it when I had the chance." 

"Hey, you be nice to my jumpers," John teased, grabbing the Union Jack pillow from behind him and throwing it at Sherlock.

"Hopefully you have time to write now," John said, tipping back the rest of his tea. "I need to sleep. The seven and a half hour flight and the three hour time difference is draining me." He stepped over to Sherlock, running his fingers through his curls. "You should shower to get that blood out and then come join me. You look like you're lacking on sleep."

"I was just unconscious for a couple hours, though regardless of that, it's only been a couple days," Sherlock said with a small shrug. He looked up at John. "You do need sleep though, certainly; you look horrible," he said, ignoring his own bags under his eyes. Those were always there, anyway.

Sherlock felt the crusted blood and nodded. "Shower's a good idea; I probably reek of hospital," he murmured, setting aside his instrument and starting down the hall. He looked back at John for a moment before stepping into the bathroom, and climbing into the shower.

John watched Sherlock walk into the bathroom, half-tempted to join him, but figuring that would be pushing his boundaries. He didn't know what they were anymore. He knew what he wanted them to be, but he wasn't sure that Sherlock was on the same page anymore.

Sighing heavily, John turned into the kitchen, setting his mug in the sink, and then made his way into the bedroom. He took the list from his pocket, placing it inside the drawer of his nightstand. He stripped quickly, changing into pyjamas. It felt strange, going to bed in pyjamas again after months of sleeping in fatigues.

John crawled under the covers, rolling onto his side with his head on the pillow.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock watched the red tinged water glide down the drain and sighed, washing himself carefully and examining his stitches. There weren't that many of them, and he wouldn't need them for more than a day. He let out a breath, getting out of the shower and drying off, wrapping himself in a towel.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before shaking his head a little, striding into the room in nothing but a towel and fishing his pyjamas out. "Sorry," he mumbled when he saw John's head lift up, not sure if he woke him or not. He quickly pulled on the shirt, and then the bottoms without taking off his towel, though the top of his bum showed, not that he was making any effort to hide or show, he was simply getting dressed.

Sherlock perched on the bed, leant up against the headboard, glancing down at John. 

"No need to apologise," John assured him, resting his hand on Sherlock’s knee. He looked up at him steadily, smiling softly. "Lay down with me?" He made it a question, giving Sherlock the choice. He could refuse, and John wouldn't push.

Sherlock shifted a little, chewing on the inside of his lip. "John I... I'm not me anymore. You said so yourself, I smell different, I  _am_  different," he said. What was there left that John would still even want?

"You picked me almost a year ago, only that isn't me anymore I –" Sherlock remembered hearing Mycroft mention it once in the last month. "I'm broken," he said quietly, curling tighter.

John pushed himself up into a sitting position. "No," he denied, shaking his head. "You're not broken. And even if you were, I can deal with broken. Broken things are fixable." He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's side, pulling Sherlock against him and tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin. "I don't care if you're different; I'm different, I'm broken. But I still love you, and I don't think that will ever change."

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled closer to John, his lanky frame fitting snug against John's small, but stockier one; like two pieces. He let out a breath, wanting it to feel like it had.

It still felt... how did it feel? Comfortable, Sherlock knew that, but something was missing. He leant his head onto John's right shoulder, knowing it was the left that had been injured. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "The... the compound I... I can't feel it John," he said quietly, his voice cracking a small bit. "What if it never comes back?" he asked, feeling a small flit in his chest when John said that he loved him.

John swallowed, his throat constricting. He didn't want to think about that, but he couldn't just ignore the question. "Then I guess there's nothing you can do about it," he murmured. "We'll just be an Alpha and an Omega living under the same roof, and I'll... I'll back off." He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Because I can't ask you to reciprocate something if you don't feel the same."

"No, no not that," Sherlock said. "That I... it's here somewhere, John... put away in," he smacked the side of his head, "here. I haven't... that is, my people skills and such are... are rusty. I put them away... emotions," he said quietly. It had to be there, because after all, if he didn't love John, then why did losing him destroy him? "My chemistry, my body... I... I'm not an Omega. I can't... it doesn't feel like it should!" he said, frustrated. He'd ruined everything, if it was permanent...

"Hush, hush," John whispered, pressing his lips to his forehead. "Calm down, love, you're alright. We'll take it slow; you're okay." He stroked his hand over Sherlock's back for a moment, letting them sit in silence. "Come on," he murmured, pulling away and lying back down, "plenty of room, as you said."

Sherlock looked at John, swallowing thickly. He nodded once, lying down as well. He curled into a small ball, how he normally slept, glancing up at John occasionally. It had been three days since he'd taken the compound, perhaps he just needed more time.

Still, that didn't mean John had to suffer right? Sherlock swallowed, shifting a small bit closer to John, letting him decide what to do from there.

John was going to let Sherlock sleep how he had laid down until he shifted closer the first time, and then John took over, his body reacting before his mind had caught up. He moved closer to Sherlock, gently straightening his legs so that he could pull him closer. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's hips, running his fingers over the small of his back and nuzzling into his hair. "Goodnight, love," he whispered, closing his eyes.

Sherlock swallowed, letting out a breath. He allowed himself to relax, remembering that he never used to have to try to, being held like this by John. Still, it was warm and he soon shut his eyes, starting to doze off. As he did so, he slipped into his mind palace, turning down a hall and coming to John's wing. John had had a room, though that was soon expanded. Sherlock lingered there, not having gone inside in a while, not allowing himself. Half dreaming, he stepped forward and unlocked it, pushing it open before he finally fell completely asleep.

John fell asleep as soon as he felt Sherlock relaxed beside him. It was dreamless at first, and warm, but then it... wasn't. Flashes and explosions danced on the edges of his vision, and he started shivering like mad. Eventually he was reliving a moment, his first officer that he lost, and he was being held back, helpless to do anything as his friend bled out before him.

John jumped awake will a small scream, quickly stuffing his fist into his mouth to muffle it. He was covered in a cold sweat, his body shaking like mad. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he fought off what remained of his nightmare.

Sherlock jerked awake when he heard the yell, sitting bolt upright and wondering where it had come from. He looked over and saw John, the day’s events flooding back to him.

Sherlock let out a breath, head too thick with sleep to think, and reacting just on instinct. He scooted over to where John was sitting on the edge of the bed bent over and draped himself over the curve of him, resting his head at the base of John's neck, his thin, bruised arms wrapping around John's middle as the man shook.

"S’okay, John... S'fine... home now," Sherlock murmured drowsily, too tired to notice that he could pick up a little on John's scent now, slightly.

John kept shaking, despite Sherlock wrapped around him. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, reaching up to link his fingers with Sherlock's, holding on tightly to his hand.

Dragging in a breath, John slowly laid down, rolling over to face Sherlock. He rested his hand on Sherlock's cheek, just taking him in. "You're real," he murmured, reminding himself that he was home, Sherlock was here.

Sherlock nodded, the hand on his face shaking. He reached up with his right hand and covered John's, steadying it slightly. "’m real," he confirmed with another nod.

It was odd – normally when Sherlock finally decided to sleep, he slept straight though, he wasn't used to this half-awake feeling. He kept himself pressed close to John, murmuring quietly to him.

John let out a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Sorry," he whispered, his left hand shaking like mad.

"Don' apologise," Sherlock said, shaking his head once. "Came back... 'nd I'll come back too..." he said, half asleep still. "’m trying..." he dozed off again, his hand still covering John's, holding it gently to his cheek.

"Oh, love," John whispered, closing his eyes. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, cradling his head against his chest and combing through his hair. His heart was still racing, but he was calming down, the nightmare almost gone from his mind. "I know you're trying." He slowly drifted off, focusing on Sherlock's steady, light breathing until he fell completely asleep again.

Sherlock woke up surprisingly later than he normally did, an hour or two  _after_  dawn. He was still wrapped up in John's arms and it took him a moment to remember how that was possible. He had a faint recollection of John waking up, but he wasn't sure how long that lasted for. Perhaps he shouldn't wait two full days without some kind of rest.

Sherlock waited a moment, watching John's eyes and waiting for him to hit the deepest sleep in his cycle so he could move without waking him. Afterwards, he slid from the bed and padded down the hall to the kitchen where he reached up above the stove and found any and all alcohol, dumping it down the drain. He sighed, glancing back towards the hall as he finished, setting all the bottles in the recycling.

Sherlock waited a little while and finally went back to his violin, softly playing John's song in front of the window, not having played it since it was recorded.

John came awake to beautiful music, and it took him a moment to recognise the soft melody that belonged to the song Sherlock had composed for him. He rubbed his eyes, pushing himself up onto his elbow and staring sleepily around the room.

Recognising Sherlock's absence, John rolled out of bed, grabbing his cane and slowly making his way into the living room. He watched Sherlock as he played his instrument, his silhouette in sharp relief against the late morning light coming through the window. He leant his shoulder against the door frame, unable to get over how good it was to see Sherlock again.

Sherlock finished the song, standing there for a little while looking out the window before he lowered the instrument and turned. He paused when he saw John standing there, still not used to another presence in the hall.

"Morning," Sherlock murmured, knowing that that's what a normal person would say. He looked at the way John was holding the cane and sighed. What would it take for him to realise that he didn't need it?

Sherlock sat down and looked at the paper, noting the article about the serial suicides. 

"Morning," John replied, smiling slightly and turning around into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. "Want some?" John offered, taking the milk from the fridge and the sugar from the cupboard. He grabbed an apple, too, setting it on the counter to take with him into the living room.

Sherlock shook his head, walking into the kitchen and eyeing the paper bag in the fridge, thankful he'd remembered to cover it up. He leant against the counter, watching John work.

Sherlock looked towards the living room, knowing he needed to get dressed today for sure – the timing was right, there was bound to be another one. 

John finished making his coffee, turning around with the mug in his hands, his weight on his left foot and his lower back leaning against the counter. "You look anxious. Everything alright?" he asked, taking a long sip on the coffee, a lot sweeter than he had grown accustomed to after drinking nothing but the potent black stuff they had served in the medical wing. 

Sherlock blinked a couple times, turning from the window to look at John. He turned and leant over, catching a look of himself in the hall mirror. "That's just my face," he said, a little bemused.

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, and your face makes a look when you get anxious, just like everyone else's does."

Sherlock looked back towards the window. "Been working on a case, NSY has it all wrong of course. Been a few days, something else is going to happen, or it's going to happen again," he said.

John took up his cane, walking into the living room and taking a seat in his chair. "What? Are you thinking serial killer then? How many of those have there been since I left?"

John tilted his head back against the chair, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "You smell different again today," he noted quietly, knowing Sherlock would hear him anyway.

"Three of them," Sherlock said, snatching up John's apple from the counter and dropping it onto his lap, ignoring the comment about his smell. "All took the same poison, all where they had no right being for their schedules, none of them with any indication of suicidal tendencies," he said, sitting in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. 

John glanced down at the apple and set it on the table beside his chair, picking up his coffee and taking another sip. "Anything related between them outside of their deaths?" he asked, picking up the paper on the floor and reading through the headline. "Serial Suicides?" John raised his eyebrows at the title of the article, skimming through it to glean enough information so that he was caught up. "And you have nothing to go on?

Sherlock took a breath, not noticing anything different about his scent. "Nothing as of yet, no. Which is irritating, but if it is a serial killer then we just wait for them to slip up. They always do," he said, having helped catch two of them so far, and that's not counting the cold case where one of them had already died before he could be arrested.

Sherlock looked over at John. "I wouldn't think you'd have found this stuff interesting," he said quietly. 

John shrugged, polishing off his mug of coffee and standing to go get more. One cup wasn't going to be enough for today. "I don't know. It sounds intriguing. More interesting than what I'm doing right now, which is nothing." He poured the coffee black this time, humming as he swallow down the first sip.

John moved back into the living room, walking over to stand near Sherlock. "You do smell different. Sweeter. Not much, but... it's there."

Sherlock was still thinking, and almost didn't notice John's comment. He took a small breath, noticing John's scent, but it still didn't seem much different. He hummed a little, acknowledging the comment.

Sherlock looked over at the apple, knowing John wasn't going to eat it. He wouldn't press it, he supposed; he'd get John to eat later. "You've just got back; I would have thought doing nothing for a little while would have been a relief," he murmured.

John took a sip of his coffee, walking towards the window and leaning against it. "It actually scares me," he admitted, watching the clouds rolling overhead and knowing it was going to start raining later. He had missed the predictability of London's fall weather. "I don't want to be alone in my mind for any length of time. I don't like what's in there anymore." 

Sherlock stood up, following John to the window. "Well, then, we'll just have to replace what's in there with something else," he said, blinking when he saw a police car pull up.

Sherlock grinned, turning to see Lestrade come in. "Another one, where?" he asked.

"Lauriston Gardens," Greg said, glancing over and nodding at John.

Sherlock chewed his lip. "There's something different about this one; you wouldn't have come otherwise." 

"Well you know how none of them leave a note? This one did, will you come?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded once. "I'll follow behind, need to get dressed," he said.

Lestrade nodded, then left.

Sherlock waited a second before a grin tugged at his mouth "Yes! Four serial suicides... and now a note." His head instantly started spinning with what it could be, what that meant, all the possibilities. He took off down the hall, pulling out clothes and pulling them on.

Sherlock leant towards the bedroom door. "John... clothes, now. We've got a crime scene, seeing as you don't want to do nothing," he said.

John sighed, a smile tugging his lips as he made his way into the bedroom, pulling on a blue jumper and some jeans. "You're going to have to slow down, Sherlock. I know you're excited, but I can't keep up with you if you start running."

"Thankfully, we'll be taking a cab," Sherlock said with a small smirk as he snatched his coat up from the footboard of the bed. "Come along," he said, tugging gently on John’s right arm before heading down the steps. He left the flat, hailing a cab and waiting for John to make it downstairs, sliding into the cab after he did.

John huffed out a breath, shutting the door behind him and glancing at Sherlock. "I'm glad you took my advice and started sleuthing around," he teased, gently nudging Sherlock's side with his elbow. "You're ridiculous, though. Dead bodies tend not to go anywhere."

Sherlock glanced over at him and shook his head with a small smirk. "Not generally no, but you'd be surprised. Story for another time. But the evidence, John. I can't have Anderson tromping all over it before I've even had a look," he said. "And Mycroft made Lestrade drag me along... can't help it that it stuck," he said with a small shrug.

John reached over, resting his hand on Sherlock's arm near the crook of his elbow. "Well, regardless of how it happened, I'm glad it did." His phone chimed suddenly and he looked down at it.

_I see you left the hospital. I'm assuming he's with you? MH_

John sighed and rolled his eyes, texting back a curt 'yes' and resisting the 'duh' that he had wanted to say. He didn't think about how Mycroft had got hold of his number, not really caring to know.

Sherlock glanced over at John as he was sent a message on his phone. He rolled his eyes as well. "Judging from your response, I take it you are now privy to the world that is Mycroft's unreasonably large nose. And his constant 'worry'," Sherlock said quietly, looking out the window.

Sherlock swallowed, sighing a little. "What did he say to you?" he asked. "I know he would have been in the hospital. They wouldn't have put me in a private room for passing out like I did unless he had some say so."

"Nothing much," John lied, smiling over at Sherlock. "Just the usual 'hurt my brother and I'll kill you' speech." He twirled his phone on his palm before slipping it back into his pocket. "He was just wondering if you were with me, is all," he said, turning to stare out of the window as the first droplets of rain started to fall.

"Wonderful, so now he's got a babysitter that can actually keep up with me. And not ignore his calls," Sherlock said with a sigh. "He knows I don't, and even now I'm less inclined to. He knew... he knew you were alive. My guess you were in the hospital for at least a month, near that span of time. He knew, and yet I did not," he said bitterly. He shook himself of the thoughts, though, not wanting to go there. 

"I'm not your babysitter. And I'm not going to tell him anything. I don't like people with a power complex, and your brother definitely has one." John reached out, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair, just enough to get his attention. "You're fine. I'm home now."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, letting out a breath. "Mycroft has always had a power complex, only now he has a more than adequate amount of power to accompany it," he said with a sigh.

The cab pulled to a stop and Sherlock paid the driver before climbing out. He glanced over his shoulder to see John following him, ignoring Sally as she started badgering Sherlock on who John was.

"Who's this?" she asked.

Sherlock lifted the crime scene tape for John, not responding.

"Freak, you can't just take people onto the scene!" Sally called.

"Talk to Lestrade, he's with me!" Sherlock spat, leading John into the building. 

John stiffened when he heard the female officer call Sherlock a freak, and he was about to turn around and yell at her when Sherlock gestured him forward. He gritted his teeth, following him into the house. "Instant distaste for her," John practically growled. "You're not a freak."

Sherlock shrugged a little. "I told you she didn't like me in my letter," he said, moving into the building and up the stairs. He waited for John at the top before strolling into the room.

Inside, lying face down on the floor, was a woman, dressed entirely in pink – a horrible shade at that, though Sherlock really questioned whether there was such a thing as a good shade.

John stared down at the woman lying prone on the floor, his mind instantly replacing her image with one of Stephen, who had died in much the same position. He clenched his jaw, turning away for a moment and leaning heavier on his cane.

Lestrade eyed John as he came in, but nodded towards Sherlock, allowing him to do whatever it was he did.

Sherlock knelt next to her, examining the body. He stood up. "She's from Cardiff, here for work for one night going on the size of her suitcase, something to do with the media. She's a serial adulterer..." he said, tilting his head as he looked at the word she'd scratched into the floor.

John watched Sherlock work with increasing interest, noting to himself that the woman had died of asphyxiation, reading the signs easily. He had learned a lot in that desert, especially concerning the medical field.

Sherlock sighed as Anderson and Lestrade both asked questions, to which Sherlock told Anderson to shut up and explained to Lestrade in length. 

"But there's no suitcase, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

"Of course there is, there has to be..." Sherlock said, trailing off. "Oh," he said, realising. He looked at John. "We're leaving," he said, turning to Lestrade. "They're murders, all of them, find out who Rachel is," he said, pointing to the name on floor and turning from the room.

"Wait, what?" John asked when Sherlock turned to him. "We've only been here five minutes." He followed him out anyway, easing down the stairs and trying not to bump into people. "Sherlock, where are we going?"

"A walk," Sherlock answered, brushing past Sally and setting her a bit off balance.

They turned down an alley and started away in a seemingly random direction. "Her case, she  _had_ a case John. She didn't eat it, which means the killer still has it. Now she colour-coordinated her lipstick and clothes; a case like hers would be the same shade and he'd want to get rid of it. He must have got them in a car, wouldn't have forgotten it otherwise. Wouldn't take him long to realise, and want to get rid of it," he said, stopping suddenly and opening up a large bin, sifting around a little before moving down and around the corner to the next one.

John struggled to keep up mentally with Sherlock, his mind not connecting the dots the way Sherlock’s was. "So... what? The case is pink? What does that have to do with this? Why are you rooting around in bins?" He sighed, quickening his pace a bit.

" _So_ , the killer got rid of it, he might not have been as careful, could have left prints. He slipped up once, what's to stop him from doing it aga- aha!" Sherlock said, climbing into his fifth skip, pulling out a bright pink rolling case with his leather-gloved hands. He grinned, hopping out and hailing a cab. "Home. Need to go through this, and then think," he said.

John was exasperated by how quickly Sherlock was processing all of this information, and, he would willing admit, he was quite impressed. He walked after Sherlock, sliding into the cab he hailed. "Isn't that technically evidence?" he asked, gesturing at the case and rubbing his leg.

"A moment ago it was trash and nothing more. I know how to handle evidence, anyway. Tested out of a forensics class," he said, glancing at John. "Graduated technically, I'm sure the little piece of paper is in the mail stack somewhere," he said. "As for the case, I'll see that Lestrade gets it," he said with a shrug.

John rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "It's nice to see you so... sure of yourself. Independence looks nice on you." He looked out of the window as they travelled, unable to stop looking at the city.

"I missed this place," John whispered, his eyes following people as they moved down the pavement, staring inside of shop windows and then moving on.

Sherlock smiled a little, though it was hardly noticeable. He watched John as the man in turn watched outside, staying quiet.

When they got to the flat, Sherlock opened the case up, observing the contents before frowning, shifting through it a little. He strode over and tossed himself onto the sofa, thinking.

John walked up the stairs more slowly than Sherlock, shrugging off his coat and taking a seat in his chair. He watched Sherlock with interest, wondering what exactly he was looking for in the case, but he never got the chance to ask because the Omega flopped down on the couch, and John could immediately tell that he had gone into his mind.

John stretched out his leg, massaging it and wincing when his shoulder pulled, not all of the muscles fully healed. With a small groan, he settled back in the chair and closed his eyes, waiting for Sherlock to resurface.

It was a couple hours later that Sherlock opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at John, letting out a breath. "John, I need you to send a text for me," he said. "On the case is a tag, there's a mobile phone number and I need you to send a text," he said, waiting for John to pull out his phone.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's request, but pulled out his phone never the less.

"’What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St, please come.’ Those words exactly," Sherlock said. "Thank you," he tacked on.

It wasn't until after John had sent the text that he looked back up at Sherlock again. "May I ask why I just sent that to the pink lady's phone?"

Sherlock looked at John as if it was obvious. "Well her phone wasn't in her possession. It wasn't in her bag; her line of work plus the line of partners, she wouldn't leave it lying about. It only leaves one conclusion. Someone else has it," he said, just as John's phone started to ring.

Sherlock looked at it. "See, a normal person finds a phone and gets a message like that, they ignore it. But the killer... would panic," he said, smiling.

"Wait, no, hang on." John held up his hand, turning to stare at his ringing phone. "What are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?" The ringing stopped and John looked at Sherlock, his eyes raised. "Why couldn't you use your phone?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Recognisable. I made a website a while back for lack of a better thing to do and my number is on it. I've got a few paid cases off it, the ones that weren't boring, that is," he said, standing up and tugging on his coat. "Come on, we've got a little bit of a walk. Just around the corner," he said.

"What? Sherlock." John twisted in his chair, staring at the Omega who was radiating excitement and energy. "Where are we going? And why is my presence necessary?" He hated to admit it, but his leg hurt like hell and, honestly, all he wanted was to have a glass of alcohol – preferably scotch – and take a long hot bath.

Sherlock paused in the doorway. "I like to think out loud and... well, you wanted to come. It's just a five minute walk," he said, looking away. "Admittedly you don't  _have_ to go but... suppose I hoped you would."

Sherlock swallowed, shaking himself a bit. "Perfectly fine," he said, turning and starting towards the steps. John was an adult, he could do as he liked.

"Sherlock!" John pushed himself to his feet, cursing under his breath. He walked to the doorway, peering down the stairs to see Sherlock looking back up at him. "Hang on a moment." He grabbed his coat from behind the door and shrugged it on before heading down the stairs.

"You're an idiot," John told him, nudging Sherlock as he passed the Omega on the stairs.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, following John and leading him down the street. "I'm the idiot? Why? You could have just as easily stayed and done as you pleased," he said with a shrug. "You're curious though... admit it." 

"You're an idiot because you thought I didn't want to come along. Of course I want to come along. My leg is just killing me." John followed Sherlock, barely half a step behind him as they walked down the street. "And yes, I'm curious. Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock smirked a small bit, then slowed his pace. "Right here," he said, opening up the door to a restaurant.

They settled at a table, Angelo coming and wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock stiffened as always, able to pick up slightly on Angelo's Alpha musk.

_That was odd._

Once more with the promise of no charge, Sherlock asked for the special, which was brought within minutes. Sherlock eyed the food pointedly, hoping John ate, while he watched the reflection of across the road in a mirror.

John caught Sherlock's stare and rolled his eyes, but he picked up his fork and started eating none the less. He chewed his food slowly, not really hungry but knowing he needed food. And the pasta was good, he had to admit.

"We're waiting. Think about it – every one of the victims was taken where they had no right being, none of them are connected. They're random, so the killer picks them. But how? He can't just snatch them from public. No, that would draw attention. So who is it that hunts in a crowd and gets people to go with them willingly?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.

"I don't know," John shrugged, reaching for his water and taking a sip. "Who?"

Sherlock saw John eating and smiled a little, glancing at his cane hanging on the back of his chair.

"Just wait... you'll see," Sherlock murmured. He didn't eat from his plate, rather just took a bit of breadstick and shredded it while they sat, John still eating.

Eventually Sherlock saw it, and smiled. "There, see it?" he asked, the cab pulling into the alley across the street. "Lights off, and... there, just turned away a passenger. Hunts in the middle of a crowd John, that's our killer," he said.

Sherlock waved Angelo over, doing a gesture with his hand. He came over with some wine, which Sherlock splashed up onto himself. "The usual Angelo, if you please," he said with a grin, looking at John.

Angelo nodded, then dragged Sherlock out of his seat, tossing him out of the restaurant as Sherlock stumbled drunkenly into the street. Angelo moved back over by John, watching the man. "Sherlock's on another case then, yes?"

John turned in his chair, watching Sherlock carefully as he stumbled across the street. "What the hell is he doing?" he murmured, a bad feeling settling in his gut. He pushed himself to his feet, walking closer to the glass door and staring at Sherlock stumbling around like a drunk man in the falling light.

*******

Sherlock moved up to the cab and knocked on the window a few times. "221B Baker Street," he said drunkenly.

"Not taking anyone," the driver said.

"Oh come on, it's right across the street!" Sherlock said, before the driver shooed him off. Sherlock went down the alley and called the phone. He heard the man answer. "How do you get them to take the poison?" Sherlock asked. Confusion, then he whirled in onto the driver, grabbing him. "I said, how do you get them to take the poison?!"

The cabby was startled, then asked for his name.

"Sherlock Holmes." 

"Do a lot of drugs Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked, asking why.

"Because most are unconscious by now..." the man grinned, and Sherlock stepped back, looking at his arm and seeing a needle there.

"J-John…" Sherlock said, his head swimming a bit. He stumbled a little, the driver getting out and directing him into the back seat, telling a passer-by that he'd drank too much. Sherlock fell onto the floor of the cab, trying to get up. "John!" he slurred, voice thick before he collapsed, blacking out.

***

John narrowed his eyes, every instinct telling him that this wasn't right, that he had to put a stop to this or Sherlock would get hurt.

"Shit, no, Sherlock fight him back!" John raced out of the door as soon as he saw Sherlock getting forced into the cab. But as soon as he made to cross the street, he nearly got ran over and he lost sight of the cab as it drove away.

"Fuck," he swore, tearing off down the street. He wasn't letting Sherlock get away, not this time. He pulled out his phone as he ran, hoping to hell that Lestrade could help him. "Lestrade! He's got Sherlock. The murderer, the one you guys have been chasing. Track Sherlock's phone; I need to know where he is. I'm getting my... I'm grabbing something at the flat." He hung up, focusing on where he was placing his feet.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock dragged his eyes open. He was propped up in a chair, but the place was unfamiliar. It looked like a model home, furniture in place, but he could tell it wasn't lived in.

"You woke up faster than I thought you would. Still, won't be able to do much for a while yet, still in your system."

Sherlock lurched out of the chair, only to collapse onto the floor, the man sitting across the room telling him to be careful, like he was some kind of child.

"You got in my way, Mr Holmes. In the way of my work..." the cabbie said.

Sherlock looked up at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. "And what's the point exactly? The killing, making them take poison, making it look like suicide..." he said, head still spinning.

"Now why would I have to tell a pathetic little Omega like you? Ruin the fun, it would," the man said, getting up and hauling Sherlock up.

It was then that Sherlock recognised the scent, Alpha... figures, the last comment making sense now.

"I can do anything I want to you, young Mr Holmes... in fact I might. Before I kill you that is... or rather, before you kill yourself."

***

John raced into the flat and past the kitchen, down the hall into his bedroom. He dug around, quickly finding his Browning and pulling it out. He checked the clip – loaded – and chambered a bullet, leaving the safety on for now.

John’s phone rang out, and he answered it instantly.

"We've got him. He's on Servington Street; house number 725. Don't do anything –" but John had already left the flat, his gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. After flagging down a cabbie, John yelled at him to get moving, giving him the address and clenching his fists as he sat anxiously in the backseat.

***

Sherlock was shoved back against the wall, his head smacking into it. He winced, blinking spots out if his eyes.

"But then, the others were more fun, begging and all... like we're not all dying anyway, some just sooner than others," the cabbie lifted Sherlock up over to a table and put him into a chair. "Nice you are, though, pity."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "If you think anything you say will make me take that pill, you're wrong. And don't try the gun. I know it's fake."

The cabbie frowned at that. "Then perhaps something else for your fancy?" he asked with a wicked grin. “Have us some fun first. We've got time anyway," he said, pulling out a small bottle of pills and taking one out. He grabbed Sherlock's mouth and forced it open, shoving it down into his throat, forcing him to swallow.

***

"Can't you go any faster?!" John yelled, but the cabbie ignored him completely, which only made John more pissed. "Just stop," he demanded, throwing some cash at the driver before jumping out. He ran down the pavement, which was mostly empty due to the late hour. He had a moment of thought where he was thankful for all of his training and his time served that had kept his stamina high, but then he cast aside all thought and just focused on getting to Sherlock.

He found the house with relative ease, the cab parked in front being his biggest clue. He drew his gun as he paused on the steps, evening his breath before he gently pushed open the remarkably unlocked door. 

 _Thanks for putting up a fight, love_.

With the safety off, John proceeded inside.

***

Sherlock swallowed thickly, wondering just what he'd been forced to take.

The cabbie watched him closely, and soon seemed confused.

Sherlock was proven right, then... heat inducer. Only not working right because of the compound still in his body. Still, it left him feeling off, different, and not in a way he would have liked.

The cabbie gripped his hair. "Something wrong with you, ain't there? Fine then," he said to the disoriented Sherlock, who was still drugged and now trying to muss out what the inducer was doing with him. "We'll just skip to the end, then." He pulled out a small pill then, making Sherlock look at it before slowly taking it out of the bottle.

***

John followed the muffled sound of voices upstairs, creeping slowly despite every nerve in his body pushing him to run. 

 _Get to Sherlock!_  He pushed it down, pausing at the top of the stairs and moving slowly to the room beyond, pausing outside of the threshold to look inside.

Sherlock was seated, looking legitimately drunk.  _Drugged_ , his brain supplied, seeing the foggy red rim to his eyes. Strong dose.

All of that went through his head in seconds, his mind registering the second person in the room and all of his rage and worry focusing on him. Instead of pouncing, he waited, waited until a bottle was produced and a pill taken out, the cabbie gripping Sherlock chin in his hand.

John reacted instinctively and instantly, raising the gun and firing like he had done too many times in the desert. Top of the chest through the lung, and the cabbie collapsed backward.

***

Sherlock felt warm, almost like on the edge of a heat, but not quite there yet, as if the compound stunted the inducer. He supposed that was a good thing, though he almost felt like he had a flu. The inducer was harmless, though, so was the sedative he supposed; the pill that was being brought slowly to his mouth, however, was another story.

His chin was gripped firmly, and he tried to pull his head away weakly, sweat starting to form on his brow. Just as the capsule touched his lips, there was a loud noise, and Sherlock felt a warm splatter hit his face as the cabbie fell over, his grip still on Sherlock as he toppled out of the chair as well, feeling like he was flipping and spinning as he hit the ground.

John clicked the safety back on his gun and stuffed it away, jogging forward to where Sherlock was lying on the ground. "Easy, easy," he murmured, taking off his jumper to wipe the splatter of blood off of Sherlock's face.

John lifted him up into his arms, spotting a couch and walking over to it, setting him down gently and putting Sherlock's head in his lap. "Just stay still," he instructed, combing his fingers through Sherlock's curls and checking his pulse, which was a bit too rapid for his tastes. "Deep breaths."

Sherlock groaned a little as he was lifted up, hearing the cabbie sputtering beside him, though the noises soon stopped. He pulled his eyes open, looking up and seeing John before his eyes rolled to the side, finding it hard to focus. "Just... an inducer... s'not working right... my compound... I’ll be fine... no hospitals..." he mumbled, still feeling too warm, and almost like he was going to be sick.

Sherlock took a shaky deep breath, John's scent hitting him, stronger than it had been, but still not the same; he didn't know if it was good or not. 

A moment later, Lestrade and his men barged in, his gaze moving from the dead man on the floor to Sherlock and John on the sofa.

John shook his head at the inspector, telling him not to ask. "Alright," he murmured to Sherlock, running his fingers lightly along his cheek. "Let's go home, then. Do you want me to carry you or would you rather I just support you?"

John glanced up at Lestrade, seeing him watching them out of the corner of his eye, narrowing his gaze thoughtfully on John.

Lestrade moved over to the sofa, looking at Sherlock. "He doesn't look too good; why not have him looked at by the paramedics... just to be sure. And one of my men will take you both home," he said.

Sherlock hummed a little, feeling the gentle fingers on his face. He moved to sit up slowly; he didn't want John to have to carry him, he'd hurt his arm after all. "Mm can try," he mumbled, though he nearly pitched off of the sofa, Lestrade catching him and standing with one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder.

"John... help me with him, yeah?" 

John nodded, steadying Sherlock as he stood. Sherlock felt feverish, but John didn't mention it, just wrapped Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and started moving forward with Lestrade on his other side.

It was awkward, especially going down the stairs, but they eventually half-stumbled out onto the pavement, making their way over to the ambulance.

"I've got him now, Lestrade. Thanks." John nodded at the DI, taking Sherlock's full weight and setting him down on the back of the ambulance, keeping a hand firmly on his shoulder as the paramedics worked around them, John snapping orders at them to do things another way, to be more gentle, to try a different test, until they threatened to make him leave.

Sherlock's eyes drooped closed as he felt the other hands on him. He flinched back when a light was flashed in his eyes, trying to swat the hand away. He felt another needle stick, in the back of his hand as his arms were shot.

"That should counteract the sedative," Sherlock heard a voice say. A hand pressed to his wrist, taking his pulse. "As for the reaction to the inducer, it doesn't seem harmful, probably just needs to sleep it off. He can go home, just keep an eye on him."

Sherlock sighed. "’m fine," he mumbled, shrugging off the blanket they kept putting on him – he was too warm for it.

"Sherlock, stop resisting," John grumbled, draping Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and slowly carrying him towards where Lestrade was waving him over to a silver car. "We're going home; work with me here."

John finally set Sherlock down in the back of the car, and, after shaking Lestrade's hand and thanking him, he walked around to the other side and slid in. He immediately pulled Sherlock against him, kissing his forehead gently, his spiked body temperature alarming him a little. "How are you feeling? And be honest with me."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, wetting his lips. "S'warm," he mumbled, mouth dry as he tried to lick his lips again, tasting a bit of blood on them from the splatter. "C-caught a... murderer," he murmured, moving off topic of how he felt, trying to sort it out. 

"You almost got yourself killed, is what you did." John bit back his anger, looking away out of the window and starting to comb his fingers through Sherlock's hair, focusing on the soft texture in order to calm down. He sighed lightly, resting his cheek against the top of Sherlock's head. "It's fine. You're alright, and that's what matters."

Sherlock shrugged lightly, his head resting comfortably on John's shoulder. He took a breath, body relaxing a fraction more. "Proved... proved a point though..." he pointed out, shifting a little and shoving his coat off of his lap, feeling too warm. 

John checked Sherlock's temperature again, flinching when he realised how high it was. "Oh? That so?" He pushed Sherlock's curls back from his forehead, blowing cool air across his feverish skin. "What point is that?"

Sherlock hummed a little, letting out a slow breath. "You," he murmured, his eyes shut. "Shall I have Angelo bring your cane to the flat?" he asked, a small, smug smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he tapped John's 'hurting' leg. 

John glanced down at his leg, his eyes widening when he realised that he'd been running without his cane and that his leg didn't hurt. "I love you," he murmured, smiling, as he pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead.

John looked up as the car slowed, recognising Baker Street. "Come on, love," he murmured, getting out and pulling Sherlock up with him, leading him up to the door.

Sherlock didn't want to move, grumbling under his breath as he was led up to the flat, nearly falling over on the stairs, but he was determined to get up them without John having to strain his arm.

Sherlock dropped his coat as soon as he was in the living room, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt as he stumbled down to the bathroom. He was still in his trousers when he dumped himself into the tub, legs hanging over the edge as he toed off his shoes, reaching over and turning the shower on cold, the water landing on him and soaking his hair, torso, and trousers. 

John hung up his coat and picked Sherlock's up as well before he made his way down the hall, glancing inside the bathroom. He let out a deep breath when he saw Sherlock in the tub, his trousers completely soaked through. "Sherlock, you're going to give yourself a cold," he chastised, walking in and turning off the shower.

John quickly stripped Sherlock, ignoring how hot he was, and muscled him out of the tub and into the bedroom. "Stay there," John commanded, backing off to strip down and pull on his pyjama bottoms but not top, and then crawling into bed.

Sherlock muttered something along the lines of  _wanting_  to be cold as John hauled him out of the tub, tugging off his trousers and pants. He fell back heavily on the bed, rolling over with a groan and muttering incoherently into a pillow, shivering slightly despite how warm he felt. He felt the bed depress, but didn't move, face still buried in a pillow, his head feeling like a swarm of bees had taken up residence, swarming and buzzing. 

"Sherlock?" John ran his fingers down the Omega's back, tracing his spine. "Is it possible that you could be going through a... a minor heat?" He wasn't sure if that was even a thing. Nothing like this had ever happened, and he was flying blind in how to help Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his head a little, shivering as John's hand moved down his spine, skin feeling cooler in contrast to Sherlock's. "Possible yes... suppose. Doesn't... feel entirely like one," he mumbled. He shifted a little, turning his head to look at John. He was caught by John's scent again, swallowing thickly. "I... my scent... different?" he asked drowsily.

John moved closer to Sherlock, nuzzling against his neck – where his scent was strongest – and inhaling. He hummed quietly, pressing his lips to Sherlock's pulse before he caught himself and pulled away. "Yeah. You smell like you again. But... stronger."

Sherlock hummed a little, his eyes still shut. He let out a breath, "Inducer must have… counterbalanced... my suppressant," he mumbled. “Made me more... normal, but feeling like this," he said, swallowing thickly.

Sherlock curled up into himself a bit, feeling almost like he might be sick, but he knew he wouldn't be. "Prob'ly jus' need to sleep. Like they said..." he murmured.

"Yeah, probably." John moved on the bed until he was spooned up behind Sherlock, his arm wrapped loosely around his waist, his hand pressed to his chest. "Sleep, then," he murmured, gently kissing the back of Sherlock's neck, indecently happy that Sherlock smelled like himself again.

Sherlock hummed, almost wanting to say that he felt too warm for John to be cuddling up to him like that, but he stayed silent. He ended up falling asleep before he could think to even change his mind, body sagging limp against John's as his breathing steadied, though his heart still beat quickly.

John didn't sleep. He couldn't rationalise it. Sherlock wasn't well, and if he fell asleep and got wrapped up in another nightmare... no, best to leave it be. He traced idle and meaningless patterns on Sherlock's chest, humming quietly to himself while the Omega slept.

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night, curling tighter with a whimper, a cramping sensation gripping him. He rolled over, not feeling as warm, but still not that good. Symptoms of a heat, just without the heat itself and the relief even of knotting.

Sherlock sighed, blinking his eyes open a little to see John awake. He blinked a few times, his eyes moving to John's shoulder, and the pink starburst shaped scar there. 

John blinked slowly at Sherlock, on the verge of asking him how he was feeling when he noticed where his eyes had fallen. John glanced down at his shoulder, wincing in memory of the pain that one stupid bullet had caused him. He placed his hand over it, covering it up, before looking back up at Sherlock, all the words he wanted to say dying on his tongue.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his mouth still dry. He shook his head, pulling John's hand down and away from the scar, examining it in the dim light. He let out a breath, then leant forward without thinking, his still too-warm lips pressing to it gently.

John closed his eyes, reaching up to run his hand over Sherlock's shoulders. "It's alright," he whispered, his voice sounding shaky even to himself. "It's just a scar; it's fine."

Sherlock nodded a little. "I know... don't hide it though," he murmured, flinching a little when he had another cramp, hissing through his teeth. He sighed, relaxing when it was gone, glancing up at John.

"Why are you still awake? You've been back one day, you need sleep," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm making sure you're okay," John explained gently, tracing his fingers across Sherlock's cheekbone and down the line of his jaw. "I didn't want to have another nightmare and not be able to hear you."

Sherlock sat up and edged towards the end of the bed, getting up carefully.

"Water..." Sherlock mumbled, shuffling into the bathroom and drinking three glasses before moving back into the bedroom. He climbed under the top sheet, not feeling as warm this time, covering himself half way.

John watched Sherlock walk off, welcoming him back with a smile when he returned. "You're in pain," he murmured, noticing Sherlock's flinching. "How can I help?"

Sherlock settled onto the bed, then after a moment scooted closer to John, sighing a little. It felt more natural; it was nice. He was afraid he'd lost that. Perhaps that cabbie had done him a favour by trying to kill him... well, rape him,  _then_  kill him.

"Nothing," Sherlock murmured. "Side effects of a heat, cramps, fever... overall not well feeling, but without the heat. Just being here... s'nice," he said quietly, looking at John. "Just have to wait it out, I'll be fine," he said. "You need to sleep eventually..."

John stroked Sherlock's back slowly and soothingly, kissing the top of his head. "You're alright, love. I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to sleep." He nuzzled into Sherlock's hair, breathing in his rich scent. "I wanna be here if you need me." He slowly moved his fingers in circles over his shoulder, before he finally just pressed his hand between his shoulder blades and held it there.

"Mmm…. Sleeping's not leaving," Sherlock mumbled quietly, tightening up into a ball again at the next cramp, letting out a steady breath as it passed.

"Well, it feels like it," John murmured, setting his hand over Sherlock's. He winced sympathetically when Sherlock curled up again, stroking gently through his hair. "You're alright. Try to fall asleep again, if you can. I'll be here."

Sherlock swallowed, looking at John again, his fingers reaching up to gently trace over the scar on John's shoulder. He sighed, realising John was almost as stubborn as he was, maybe more at times. He shut his eyes again, trying to ignore the cramps, and the slight nausea that came with them.

"I am... alright," Sherlock echoed quietly, his eyes shut. "S'not the worst I've had to deal with," he murmured, his fingers running unconsciously up his scared and bruised arms. He shivered a little, not thinking about the room he'd been in as he detoxed. He'd rather have a heat for a week than go through that again. 

John made a sympathetic noise, holding Sherlock closer and continuing to rub his back. "I know. You've been through too much for someone your age," he whispered, pressing his lips across Sherlock's forehead and to his temple, then down to his cheek. "I would take it all away if I could."

John held his hand against Sherlock's forehead to take his temperature. "Feels like it might be going down," he murmured, not sure if it actually was or not.

"Mhm... feels like," Sherlock mumbled quietly, tensing at another cramp. He let out a long, slow breath, willing himself to relax more. Eventually he started to drift off again, rubbing his nose a little.

"Should... still sleep," Sherlock mumbled before falling completely unconscious again. His brows furrowed from time to time still from the cramps, but he slept through them.

John smiled softly, pressing his lips to Sherlock's overly-warm forehead and keeping them there. Whenever he felt Sherlock stir, he would gently rub his back, murmuring soft words to him, telling him some of the more light-hearted stories from Afghanistan.

It wasn't hard keeping himself awake. John was tired, sure, but he was more afraid to fall asleep than anything. 

 _Probably suffering from PTSD_ , his doctor's mind supplied, but John brushed it off.

***

Sherlock woke up after the sun had risen, John's arms still wrapped around him. He blinked a few times, feeling relatively normal... well, as normal as a junkie who needed a new nicotine patch  _could_  feel in the morning.

Sherlock pulled himself from John's arms gently before realising there wasn't any point – John was still awake. "You're going to go mad if you keep doing that," he muttered, sitting up and moving across the room to pull on some pyjama bottoms and a too-large t-shirt.

"I'll be fine," John insisted, leaning up on his elbows to watch Sherlock move around the room.

"How are you feeling? Your fever broke about three hours ago. Are the other effects gone?" John cocked his head at the clothes Sherlock pulled on, intrigued to see him in comfortable clothes. More intrigued to see him moving around so fluidly; John's only memories of him were those of a timid Omega. Now all he could see was a self-confident Omega posing as a Beta. "You smell better today."

"Well enough as can be expected," Sherlock murmured, not looking at John. "After being drugged, and not by the type my body would prefer..." he said, reaching down to his arm and ripping off the useless patches that were there with a wince. He'd forgotten to take them off. Oh well.

Sherlock sighed, wanting a cigarette, but instead reached into the bedside drawer, finding another patch and sticking it on. Only one this time – he'd just finished a case after all; he supposed he should eat as well.

John sighed, not wanting to get into this discussion. He rolled off the bed, stretching his arms above his head and walking over to put a shirt on, relieved when his scar was covered up. He knew he shouldn't be self-conscious about it – Sherlock didn't want him to be – but he couldn't help it. The reminder of the pain and the fact that he had almost lost Sherlock and what this bloody wound had cost the Omega was too much, and he didn't want to look at it if he didn't have to.

John kept his dog tags tucked in as he left the room for the kitchen to start the coffee, having not taken them off since he arrived home.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, then padded out into the kitchen, rationalising it as finally eating something after a case, but part of it being near John's scent again. It made him feel almost small again, like before he had built up the walled fortress he currently resided in.

Sherlock looked at John. "You're having more than coffee," he said, his tone not as forceful as normal; he supposed it would be more difficult standing up to people now, Alphas at least. He sighed. But his compound wasn't ready yet, the other side effects not worth it. 

"I'm not hungry, Sherlock," John replied kindly, starting the pot of coffee and leaning against the counter. He ran his eyes from the top of Sherlock's sleep-mussed hair down to his bare feet and then back up again.

"I ate so little out... out there that I don't have much of an appetite anymore. I don't like eating." John shrugged, turning back to the coffee pot when it was done, pouring himself a mug and taking a slow sip.

Sherlock set his jaw a little, saying nothing for a few minutes. He looked at John, who was thinner than he was before. "I don't care," he said, grabbing one of the muffins that Mrs Hudson had made and set it on the counter next to John.

"And I don’t like eating, either, but I do it when I have to," Sherlock muttered, grabbing another muffin and biting into it begrudgingly to prove a point. 

John stared at the muffin, both of his hands cupping the mug of coffee. He looked up at Sherlock, watching him take a bite out of his own muffin. "Sherlock..." he sighed, decided that it wasn't worth arguing about and started picking at the muffin on the counter, nibbling on a small bite.

"Are you going to have any coffee?" John asked, stepping aside so that Sherlock could get to the pot if he wanted.

Sherlock shook his head, watching John closely as he barely nibbled on the muffin. "No, I'm awake enough... nicotine patch as well," he murmured. He made himself eat the whole muffin, watching John intently.  He took a glass up and filled it with water, always thirsty after a heat... which he supposed that kind of was.

John sighed, picking up his muffin and taking a larger bite out of it. He wasn't hungry, but he figured it would make Sherlock happy if he ate.

After worrying his mug between his hands and taking another bite of his muffin, John set his coffee down and walked up to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling against his shoulder.

Sherlock blinked a few times, looking down at John. He chewed his lip a little before resting his forehead on top of John's hair. "Thank you," he murmured, knowing John hadn't wanted to take those large bites. "I'd like it at least half gone... or gone by this afternoon," he said. He took a breath, John's scent soothing like it had been a lifetime ago.

"Alright," John murmured, holding onto Sherlock and letting his scent calm him for the moment. "Do me a favour?" He tilted his head up, meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Stay off of that compound for a while, at least," he asked, running his fingers along the Omega's spine. "I want the flat to start smelling like you again."

Sherlock looked down for a moment, thinking. "I was taking a break anyway... other side effects I didn't want," he said. He met John's gaze again.

"Only if you keep eating," Sherlock suddenly countered. "Twice a day at least, or I will just take it," he said, knowing he didn't want to take it, and that he wasn't being fair to either of them. Sherlock didn't like not being able to smell John's scent... everyone else's he could do without, but John's... still, he would sacrifice that if it meant John got better.

"You're going to blackmail me into eating?" John asked, leaning back to look at him better.

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. "Yes... yes, that's what it is," he mumbled, his face nuzzling on its own into John's neck. "So please do, because otherwise it's punishing both of us," he murmured.

"Not something I would have expected by you, but I'll take it." John sighed, holding Sherlock closer and just breathing him in for a moment. "Whatever it takes to be able to hold you like this and have it go both ways."

Sherlock sighed, pulling away from John gently. "You should go sit on the sofa for a bit. It'll help me think later having it smell like you. And you're to wear all of your jumpers at least once this week. They stopped smelling like you within the first week, which I think was unacceptable," he said.

John smiled, reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheek. "I can do that," he murmured, running his fingers lightly against some of the hair near his temple. "But only if you promise to wear that purple shirt the next time we go out for something," he teased, grabbing his muffin and mug of coffee and moving into the living room. He dropped onto the sofa, lying on his side so that he could still eat.

John pillowed his head on his arms and closed his eyes, listening to the noises of the flat.

Sherlock smiled a little, the movement still feeling unfamiliar on his face when it wasn't accompanied with something to do with a case. He watched John cross the room, taking the muffin with him.

Sherlock let out a breath, clearing out a little more of his equipment, not really feeling like doing any experiments today. He crept over to the coffee table, sitting down on it and resting his elbows on his knees, watching John with his eyes shut.

John smirked, humming quietly and reaching out with his hand to rest it on Sherlock's knee. "Can't be sneaky when I can smell you, love," John murmured, drifting on the edge of sleep, his mind a little foggy. He smoothed his thumb over the top of Sherlock's kneecap, peeking an eye open to meet Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock looked down at John's hand when he reached it out, the corner of his mouth pulling up a little. He looked up as John opened one eye a little, meeting his gaze for a moment. "You should try and sleep," he said quietly.

Sherlock had a thought, then, and got up, crossing the room to grab his violin and drape himself over his chair. He very softly started to play John's tune, a little slower than normal as well, closing his own eyes as he did so.

"That's cheating," John muttered, closing his eyes again. Though his mind was quite opposed to the thought of sleep, his body was gasping for it, and in the end, his body won out, forcing him into a deep sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

_"Granger's been hit!"_

_John flinched at the yell, twisting around the rock he was cowering behind. He could see his comrade on the ground, hand pressed to his leg to stop the bleeding. The Land Rover was still burning, heating up the already acrid air. His friend was dying, two others were probably already dead, but John was frozen. He turned back around and found himself in the OR, surrounded by people he knew. Fifty-three people were crammed into the small operating room, all staring at him, their skin pale and blood trickling from wounds he hadn't been able to mend fast enough. They started walking forward, crowding around him--_

 -

John jumped awake, running into the bathroom and throwing up the small amount of food in his stomach. His left hand was shaking severely, and he pressed it to the floor in an effort to stop it.

Sherlock had stopped playing when John was asleep, though he had waited a few minutes. He sat thinking then, watching John off and on. It was probably four hours later when John tore away from the sofa and dashed to the bathroom.

Sherlock was on his heels, walking into the bathroom and flushing the toilet. He knelt behind John and wrapped one arm around his waist, reaching down with his left hand to cover John's, twining his fingers with the Alpha's. "It's alright, John..." he shushed him, his nose trailing along the back of John's neck. "You're not there anymore... it can't touch you..." he murmured.

John whimpered, his eyes closed tightly, his left hand squeezing Sherlock's. "It won't stop," he whispered, leaning back into Sherlock's hold. "None of it; it won't go away." He drew in a shuddering breath, holding it for a long moment. "I can still feel the heat, taste the grit that blows around in the air. I can still see  _all of them_."

Sherlock held John tighter. "It's been two nights... give it time," Sherlock said quietly, wishing he knew how to do this better. He wanted to help John.

Sherlock tugged John back from the toilet, sitting him against the bathtub and crawled onto his lap, almost straddling him so when he took John close again their chests pressed together. "I'm here, though... I…" He didn't know how to do this.

"What... what do you need?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to expose his neck a little more for him.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and inhaling deeply. "Just you," he murmured, the Omega's scent calming him down immensely.

John nuzzled against Sherlock's skin, nosing his way up under his ear. Pressing his lips to the soft patch of skin there, John grazed his teeth gently along it, running his fingers up into Sherlock's hair and just holding them there, dropping his forehead back to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sorry," John whispered, though he wasn't entirely sure what for. Everything, nothing; it just felt like the right thing to say.

Sherlock didn't move, allowing John this, letting him do whatever it was he needed. "You don't need to apologise, John," he murmured. "You kept your promise... you came back," he said. "You're still there, though, some small part of you, and we just have to work to get you here. Home... permanently," Sherlock said quietly. 

"How?" John asked, his voice cracking. He hated himself for the tears he was fighting back, but he couldn't stop his emotions. "I lost all of my men and forty-seven others. All of them died under my care and my watch. How am I supposed to come to terms with that?"

Sherlock tightened his hold on John. "And what would have been better? You losing yourself in the sand as well? You nearly did. You were all there... fighting for whatever cause it is these days. But it wasn't your fault... and with you there they had more of a chance than if you weren't. They were going to die regardless," he said quietly.

"What about the others?" Sherlock asked, pulling away and looking at John intently, his hands on either side of his face. "The ones you saved, did you bother counting them? Writing their names down? You remember all the bad, but what about the good? The people who didn't come home in a box because of you, rather than the ones that would have whether you were there or not?" 

John turned his face out of Sherlock's hands, staring blankly at the floor. "I could have done better. I could have saved more people – done something different to help them." He squeezed his eyes shut, tears dripping out of them.

"Christ, there were nights, after a couple shots, I would just..." John bit his lip, shaking his head because he didn't want to admit it. "I would wonder why I was still there. If all the suffering was worth it. If it would be better if I just... wasn't." His voice was so quite that he could barely hear it, but he knew Sherlock had caught his words. Sherlock never missed anything.

Sherlock took John's face in his hands again, a little forcefully for an Omega. "You listen to me John Watson; you are never to think those thoughts again. Do you understand?" he said sharply, before softening slightly. "You did the best you could with what you had; you were in the middle of a desert for god's sake!" he said, wrapping his arms around him.

"I would have never forgiven you John; it was one thing thinking that someone else had taken you from me... but if you had done it yourself... I would never have forgiven you," Sherlock said, his voice a little thick.

John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck again, his fingers stroking through his hair. "I know," he choked out, "that's why I didn't do it." He pulled back only to lean up and press his lips against Sherlock's. "You're the only reason I got out of that desert, Sherlock Holmes. If it had just been me..." he shook his head, not wanting to think about it.

Sherlock nodded a little, holding onto John closely. "You came home, they all did, John. They're not hurting anymore, and I don't want you to," he said quietly. "There's nothing to be done for it, save to take care of yourself," he murmured.

Sherlock pressed his lips tentatively onto John's neck, the place where, on his own neck, he knew John would mark, as well as the back of his neck where his scent was strongest. He would be John's, and John his, and it would be better. They would both be better.

John shuddered slightly at Sherlock's lips on his neck, and he leant into the touches. Reaching up to cup the back of Sherlock's neck, he pulled the Omega forward and claimed his lips again, parting them with his own and flicking his tongue inside almost hesitantly. "Thank you," he breathed, his lips brushing against Sherlock's, as he was unwilling to lose contact.

Sherlock leant into the kiss a little, hands at the base of John's head. He pressed his forehead against John's, letting out a breath. "You're welcome, John," he said, shifting a small bit on his lap. "I already fixed your leg... just working on the rest," he said quietly, tugging John's jumper down a little to press another kiss to his scar.

John hummed quietly, relaxing against Sherlock's touch. "I trust you to," he murmured, carding his fingers through Sherlock's thick curls. He ran his left hand down Sherlock's shoulder to his side, settling it on his hip. "I love you. Have since the beginning and will to the end."

Sherlock smiled a little, taking John's lips up again into a gentle kiss, covering the hand on his hip with his own. He kissed down John's jawline and down to his neck, humming softly.

"John..." Sherlock said, his sentence broken up by kisses. "I want.... that heat was different, they're.... always... different," he murmured, not sure how to explain. "I want... you..." he said quietly. He'd only ever with those horrible people, and John had been his first during a heat, but outside of one...

Sherlock moved his lips back up to John's cheek, his lips lightly ghosting over one of John's shut eyes. 

John cupped Sherlock's face in both hands, pulling him back so that he could look at him. There was no denying what he saw on Sherlock's features. He moved both hands to Sherlock's hips, and he gently pushed Sherlock off of his lap, standing up and pulling Sherlock with him.

John led the Omega into the bedroom, pulling him close and closing their lips together again. He slid his hands under the hem of Sherlock's shirt, tracing light lines against his skin with his fingertips. "I've got you," he promised, feeling a slight tremble run across Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock shivered a little, nodding as he pressed another small kiss to John's lips. The fingers along his skin felt foreign against it, not having allowed himself to be touched in almost a year, not having liked anyone to. John's hands were calloused, but still gentle, the toughness of a soldier, but still soft enough for a surgeon.

Sherlock hummed softly. "Mm... t-top drawer," he mumbled quietly, knowing there was a small bottle of lubricant in there, a joke by one of the people at NSY, though it ended up coming in handy for an experiment, as well as greasing a hinge. He supposed he was glad he had kept it now, though. 

John nodded, pulling Sherlock's shirt over his head and backing him up to the bed, pushing him gently onto it. He crawled over him, his hands braced on either side of his shoulders. Slowly and lightly, he nuzzled against Sherlock's collarbone, nipping at the skin and soothing it with his tongue afterward. "I forgot how good you tasted," John purred, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the centre of his chest.

Sherlock hummed, leaning back into the bed, his eyes slipping shut. Yes, definitely different than a heat, because it didn't hurt, it wasn't a physical ache and need. It was a want; he  _wanted_  John. Every press of John's mouth to his skin left a burning warmth that almost seemed to spread through him.

Sherlock lifted his arms, tugging John's jumper off, gentle when it came to John's shoulder. He heard the noise of John's dog tags hanging from his neck, where they also dragged against Sherlock's stomach as John kissed him.

Sherlock pulled John's face up gently, kissing him on his lips as he reached up, lifting the tags gently from John's neck. Even then Sherlock could almost feel the weight of them, and he lifted it up over John's head, not breaking the kiss as he slipped them over his own, taking the weight for himself.

John pulled back, looking steadily at Sherlock as he traced the line of the chain from his neck to his chest. "I like them better on you, anyway," he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting up into a smirk.

John leant down again, trailing his lips down Sherlock's stomach and grazing his teeth along his ribcage.

Reaching down, John slipped his fingers around the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and pulled them down along with his pants, tossing the articles of clothing aside. He undid the button and zip of his own jeans, breaking away from Sherlock so that he could pull them off before returning to the Omega.

"God, you're beautiful," John whispered huskily, capturing Sherlock's lips once again.

Sherlock took a breath as John's teeth grazed by the small scar he had from his surgery almost a year ago, his own gaze moving over John's tanned skin. He was tanned even on his torso, no doubt on the days when they were safe in camp they would take off their shirts. It was then that Sherlock saw all the small nicks and cuts on John's skin, the scars there. Each one told a story, ones that he would deduce later before asking John to tell him. For now he smiled, his fingers tracing over a few lightly.

"Not that skinny whelp anymore," Sherlock murmured. He was still thin, but not starved as he had been. He'd even built up some muscle from work, climbing about sewers and abandoned warehouses, as well as running. 

John nipped at Sherlock's hip, running his hands over Sherlock's torso and sides. "Proved them wrong," he murmured, looking up at the Omega that he had basically rescued less than a year ago.

John slowly stood from the bed, walking over to grab the lube from where Sherlock said it would be and then returning to the bed, settling himself between Sherlock's legs. He hitched one of Sherlock's knees up, nuzzling against the inside of his thigh – another spot that had a heavy concentration of his smell – his eyes focused on Sherlock's the entire time.

Sherlock's breath hitched a little as the inner part of his thigh was touched, biting on his lip a small bit. He hummed, blinking a couple times. "No... proved you right," he said breathlessly, his hips shifting a fraction. He hummed, feeling himself start to stiffen, hips moving again slightly.

John smiled, moving to nuzzle the juncture where Sherlock's leg met his hip. Slowly, but with purpose, he moved his mouth over and hovered above Sherlock's forming erection before licking a slow line down his length, feeling him harden rapidly after that.

John hummed, pleased with himself, and moved to take just the head of Sherlock between his lips, swirling his tongue teasingly around the glans. "Beautiful," he repeated, pulling off so that he could kiss down Sherlock's length, uncapping the bottle and coating his fingers in the lube.

Sherlock gasped as John's mouth closed around him, his hands balling up gently in the bedding. He hummed a little, glancing down to see the almost smug smile on John's face.

"Relax, love," John murmured, kissing Sherlock's hip as he rimmed Sherlock with his finger and slowly pushed it in.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes slipping shut as John teased around his entrance. "E-easy for you... to say..." he breathed with a light smile, moaning a small bit as John's finger pushed inside of him. He curled his toes a little, the sensation so different. Outside of a heat, but... wanting it. Wanting the person doing it and wanting them to. And John was so... gentle. 

John reached up with his free hand, linking his fingers with Sherlock's to give him something to hold on to.

John moved his finger around, slowly sliding it in and out and gradually adding a second finger. "Easy," he breathed, tightening his hand around Sherlock's and kissing his hip again when Sherlock tightened around him, resisting.

Sherlock couldn't help the tensing, as much as he tried not to. He swallowed, holding onto John's hand. He let out a breath, turning his head towards where the pillow was that John had used the night before. He hummed softly, able to also pick up on the scent rolling off of John now.

"I'm not going to hurt you; you're fine," John reassured the Omega, smiling kindly at him when he relaxed again and he could start stroking with his fingers again.

John smirked to himself, pressing both fingers against Sherlock's prostate and rubbing it just the right way.

Sherlock hummed, relaxing a small bit as John pushed up into him slightly more. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his hips sliding forward a bit as John brushed up against what could only be his prostate, which again... felt so different. During a heat he only wanted that one spot reached – this though... "J-John.... that’s just t-teasing... god…" he breathed.

John chuckled, his tone lower from lust. "I know," he murmured, rolling his fingers around Sherlock's prostate again before he focused on stretching him properly. He moved his mouth back to Sherlock's erection, running his lips along it and flicking his tongue out. He scissored his fingers, adding a third when he felt that Sherlock was ready for it. He took Sherlock into his mouth simultaneously, masking the small amount of pain with additional pleasure, his tongue pressing against the Omega's slit and rolling across his glans.

A small whimper rose from Sherlock as John's fingers moved, another one adding into it, but the noise was swallowed up by the other noise that escaped him, which was a lower moan. His hips moved up a small bit, taking a sharp breath in again. He gripped tightly onto John's fingers, biting his lip a bit again as he hummed.

John hummed around Sherlock, knowing he would be able to feel the vibrations. He continued moving his fingers until they slid easily, and then he pulled them out, popping off of Sherlock's length and crawling up his body. He captured Sherlock's lips with his own, entangling their tongues, his moan getting swallowed up by Sherlock.

Sherlock made a small noise as John was suddenly above him again, and he stole up John's lips happily. He reached up his arms to wrap around him, one of his hands weaving up into John's hair. He moved his hips up, grinding up against John a small bit, needing the friction... _something_  at this point.

Sherlock hummed as he kissed John greedily, feeling better himself and hoping – and suddenly with John back he allowed himself to hope – that it made John better too, if only a fraction. "God... please John..." he panted.

John chuckled, nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip and suckling it between his own lips. He finally released it, smirking down at Sherlock. "Impatient, are we?" he teased, reaching over for the lube he had set aside, coating his length before tossing the tube away.

John nudged Sherlock's knees a little farther apart, pressing himself against Sherlock's entrance before slowly pushing in, dropping his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he met just a slight amount of resistance before he bottomed out.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he felt John press against his entrance, his eyes closing as John started pushing in slowly. It burned slightly, stretching more despite John preparing him.

Sherlock tensed a small bit as he thought back to the times before, his mind going where he didn't want it to. He was breathing heavily when he felt John stop, waiting for him, he supposed. Sherlock took a moment to bring himself back to now, not thinking about that place. Because he was with John, who was careful, and his.

"Hey," John whispered, noticing the emotions flitting across Sherlock's face. "Look at me, love." He cupped Sherlock's cheek, stroking his cheekbone gently with his thumb. "Your pace, alright?" He leant down to kiss Sherlock cautiously, keeping his movements slow. He ran his fingers over Sherlock's side, appreciating the lean muscle he found there.

Sherlock's brow furrowed a small bit before he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to see John there. He smiled softly, nodding a little as he held onto John, one hand still weaved up into his short blond hair.

"’m fine... really..." Sherlock said, looking at John. He took a deep breath, breathing in John’s scent and then sighing, relaxing some before he nodded again.

John smiled, nosing under Sherlock's jaw and slowly starting to move inside of him. He pulled out halfway and sunk back in, moaning and pressing his lips to Sherlock's pulse. He repeated his movements, looking up at Sherlock before he sped up, his fingers twining in Sherlock's hair, guiding their lips together.

Sherlock's breathing picked up a little as John started to move in and out of him, hooking his ankles behind John's knees to hold him in place. He moaned, his head tilting back into the bed more as he rolled his hips in time to John's motion.

Sherlock panted against John's mouth as the kiss broke, looking directly into John's eyes. "I... I love you... m-missed you... so... so much," he breathed, his arms wrapping around John, finger pads pressing into his back for purchase.

"God, I love you too, Sherlock," John breathed. "So very much." His thrusts sped up, though he kept his movements gentle and easy. He grazed his teeth along Sherlock's collarbone, intent on making this as good for him as it should have always been. "You're so amazing," he murmured, his voice mixing with a moan as Sherlock moved with him. "I'm so lucky to have met you."

Sherlock whined a little, breathing heavily as he loosened one hand from John's back down to himself, running his hand up his length almost frantically, needing the friction. "Oh... god, John..." he panted, swallowing thickly as his hips bucked a small bit. "Y-you... saved me... didn't meet... but...’m the lucky one..." 

John panted, quickening his pace to match Sherlock's frantic one. He groaned, his knot starting to swell. He was close, and he could tell by Sherlock's scent and the noises he was making that Sherlock was just as close. "Sherlock?" he asked, unsure if he wanted it or not when he wasn't in heat, when he didn't  _need_  it.

Sherlock nodded, gripping tightly onto John. He wanted it, he didn't care; he wanted John, all of him, always. He groaned a little, toes curling. There was nothing to be worried about this time, he knew he loved John, and he knew John wasn't leaving. He didn't have to worry about pups because that could only happen during a heat, anyway. "Yes... god, yes John," he panted.

John growled a little, nipping at Sherlock's skin as his Alpha mentality took over for the moment. He thrust deeper and harder into Sherlock, moaning out his name as he gave a last, hard snap of his hips, burying his knot in Sherlock. He rolled his hips, hitting and rubbing against Sherlock's prostate, watching as the Omega slowly came undone.

A small noise almost like a cry came from Sherlock when he felt John knot, unable to stand it anymore as he finally came. His body clenched around John, his fingers digging into his back slightly as he cried out.

John was gone as soon as Sherlock clenched around him, coming hard inside of the Omega.

Sherlock fell back onto the bed, panting and shivering, his eyelids fluttering a bit before closing. He hummed, thoughts slammed to a halt as John rested atop him, not able to withdraw yet. He hummed, a lazy smile on his face as he pried his eyes open, looking at John.

"Christ," John panted, nuzzling against Sherlock's neck. He made a small noise, rolling onto his back and settling Sherlock on top of him, stroking his back soothingly. Feeling him shivering, John reached down and covered them with the duvet. "Alright?" he murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock was limp as John rolled them over, not able to move much with John’s knot buried in him, but he didn't mind. He hummed, nuzzling against John's chest and tracing his fingers lightly over the scar on John’s shoulder. "Mhm," he hummed, a small smile on his face. "That... that should have been my first time," he murmured, reaching up with his other hand and playing with John's hair a little. 

John leant into Sherlock's touch, humming quietly and smiling to himself. "I wish it would have been," he murmured, combing his fingers through Sherlock's slightly damp hair.

Sherlock leant into the touch, a soft whine coming from him, feeling as vulnerable as he had before, but only without the fear he'd had.

John moved his hand down, curling his fingers around his tags and holding them up. "You going to keep wearing these?" he asked, a hint of hope in his voice. It wasn't that he didn't want to wear them, more that he just wanted Sherlock to. 

_Mine, he's mine. This proves it._

Sherlock nodded, humming a little as he reached up and rested his hand over John's. "S'long... as you want," he said quietly, picking up on something rolling off of John, and finding himself more than receptive to it.

"Yes..." Sherlock murmured, nodding.

John blinked, staring at Sherlock for a long moment before he realised that he was agreeing with his thoughts. John immediately crushed their lips together, possessively holding Sherlock against him. His fingers wound in Sherlock's hair, and he didn't lean away until he needed to breathe. "Good," he whispered.

Sherlock returned the kiss, his lips pliant under John's. His breathing was still a little fast, and he ran his tongue over his red and swollen lips, looking up at John. He felt almost dazed, and it was without any drugs this time. It was better, and he leant down into John again, rolling his hips a small bit again where they were still connected. 

John followed Sherlock's tongue greedily, groaning deeply and dropping his head back when he rolled his hips. "Enjoying yourself?" he murmured, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, massaging his fingertips against his scalp.

Sherlock leant into John's fingers like a cat, practically purring as he did so. He hummed, resting his head back onto John's chest and listening to his heartbeat. "Yes... now that you've bothered ask," he murmured teasingly, smiling as his fingers still lightly traced over John's scar, committing it to memory.

John chuckled, continuing to circle his fingers against Sherlock's scalp, encouraged by the positive response. "I'm glad."

John shivered slightly when Sherlock traced his scar, the tissue around it more sensitive. "It's smaller in the back. Entered there, exited up front." He swallowed, nuzzling against the top of Sherlock's head. "Shattered my clavicle and grazed the subclavian artery. Two centimetres higher and I would have bled out in twenty minutes."

"Mmmm... long range... my thanks to the breeze that day," Sherlock murmured quietly, lifting his head and craning his neck to reach the scar, pressing his lips to it gently before settling back onto John's chest.

"You're here though... so that’s good," Sherlock said, pressing an open mouthed kiss to one of John's small pink nipples. He nuzzled his head against John's chest with a contented sigh before he heard a noise from John's stomach. He titled his head up, looking at John. "Think we should try eating something a little later, hmm?" he suggested softly.

John let out a contented noise, humming when Sherlock kissed his nipple. "Yeah, alright," he murmured. "You get any better at cooking?" he asked, his voice lilting into a tease.

John let out a small breath when his knot receded and he slipped out of Sherlock with a wet noise. "How bout we clean up first though, hmm?" he suggested, rubbing Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock winced a little as John pulled out of him, the area a little more tender than it was after his heat, but not in a bad way. "I haven't starved, have I?" he asked. Though admittedly the actual cooking was left to Mrs Hudson, who always brought him food: _"I just make too much for myself dear..."_ Or by the restaurant he'd call for takeaway after finishing a case. Other than that, he stuck to cereal, cold food, or packaged.

"Mm... cleaned up... Mmkay," Sherlock mumbled, not moving from where he was curled on top of John still.

John sighed, but he was smiling. "Maybe in a little bit then, huh?" He chuckled, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Don't fall asleep on me, though. Otherwise I won't be able to get up to eat," he teased, hooking their ankles together.

Sherlock sighed. "Tedious..." he muttered, still smiling a small bit as well. He pushed himself up a little, John's tags hanging from his neck and brushing across the man's chest as he rolled off of him. "Alright... may as well just get it over with," he murmured, tangling his fingers with John's for a moment and giving them a slight squeeze.

John squeezed back, following Sherlock off of the bed. He led the way into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping in, closing the curtain behind Sherlock. "You first," he murmured, gesturing to the spray of hot water.

Sherlock blinked in the brighter light of the bathroom, it had been a bit dimmer in the room at least. He looked down at his arms, rubbing them a little self-consciously as he stepped under the spray, soaking down his hair and trying to avoid letting John see his arms all the way.

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's timidness, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock was running a bar of soap up his shoulder when John grabbed his wrists, and his first instinct was to try and pull them back. He tugged a little at them, finally letting John just look at them.

John held on tightly until Sherlock gave up fighting. He rolled over Sherlock’s arms, looking intently at the dark bruises situated on the inside of his elbows, marring the soft skin there. He lowered his head, placing light kisses over each of the dark marks, running his lips down the inside of his arms to his wrists. "I love you, no matter what," he murmured, leaning up on his toes to kiss the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock bowed his head, ears burning with a slight shame. He turned his head to the side, not meeting John's gaze. He rubbed his hands up his forearms with a sigh. "All a bit stupid, I suppose... I just… my thoughts wouldn't slow, they wouldn't go away... felt like I was getting ripped apart," he said quietly. "And now I'll always have these," he said, feeling the scars with his thumbs.

Sherlock looked at John's scar; his was beautiful. He'd got it protecting his men, doing his duty, and ultimately it's what brought him home to Sherlock. Sherlock's were just him being weak.

John cupped Sherlock's face, forcing their eyes to meet. "Scars tell stories. They're reminders – I should know, look at how many I have. Yours aren't a sign of weakness, love. They're a reminder to never do it again. They're a promise that I'm always coming home."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, nuzzling into his neck and kissing him. "And don't think mine are so great," he whispered, pulling away. "I got all of them from being stupid or making rash decisions and rookie mistakes." He tapped his shoulder. "Turned my back to the enemy without sufficient cover. Got all but one of my men killed because of a stupid mistake."

Sherlock met John's gaze, nodding after a minute. He looked down at his arms again, letting out a breath before he wrapped them around John's waist. "Will you do my hair again?" he asked quietly, feeling the metal of John's tags pressing between them.

John nodded, his tags cold against his chest. He reached out for the shampoo, squeezing some onto his palm. With extra care that he knew he didn't really need, he scrubbed the shampoo into Sherlock's hair, concentrating on the areas that Sherlock always seemed to appreciate the most.

Sherlock hummed contentedly, his eyes closing as John's fingers massaged into his scalp. He swallowed thickly, leaning his head under the spray of water when John had scrubbed his hair enough, smiling more as the suds all rinsed out. "Mm... thank you..." he murmured.

"Not a problem," John said, leaning up to kiss Sherlock's nose. "I enjoy touching your hair." He quickly scrubbed shampoo in his own hair and rinsed it out, grabbing the bar of soap and scrubbing down completely.

"Not sure I want to get out of here," John murmured, stepping up and resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock smiled a little, nipping lightly at John's neck. "Have to eat. You tossed up that muffin, remember? And I've hardly eaten anything since the case ended and I find myself... with a rather large appetite for once," he said, nibbling at John's ear carefully.

John hummed happily, running his fingers up Sherlock's neck and into his hair. "You keep doing that," he murmured, a soft sigh escaping him, "and we'll never get out of here."

Sherlock smirked. "Trust me, you don't want to see this whelp get all prune-y," he murmured, reaching over to turn off the tap. He pressed a small kiss to John's nose, wrapping his arms around John's waist again. "We can do whatever you like," he murmured.

John nuzzled against Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling his scent, slightly muted from the shower. "I s'pose we ought to eat something," he admitted grudgingly, tilting his head to look up at Sherlock. "And then I want to sit in your chair and hold you for a while."

Sherlock nodded, then drew the curtain open, being the first to step out. He dried off quickly, tossing the towel over to John. "We'll have to hang up two now, I suppose," he said, striding into the bedroom and just tossing on pyjamas again. He didn't want to bother getting dressed; he wasn't going anywhere.

John quickly dried off, inhaling Sherlock's scent on the towel. "Mmm we can just keep one towel," he suggested with a smile, walking into the bedroom to throw on some track pants and a different jumper, remembering what Sherlock had said about them.

Sherlock looked over at John, smiling a little when he pulled on a new jumper. Sherlock himself pulled on a ratty t-shirt that he'd burned some holes in with acid, pulling John's tags out to sit within view.

"I'll call for some takeaway," Sherlock said over his shoulder. He paused; he didn't actually know what John liked, they'd only had a handful of days together. "Is Chinese okay?" he asked, rather fond of Spring rolls himself.

"Chinese sounds delicious," John said, walking over to the door and leaning against the frame, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not too fussy, I just don't like asparagus."

"Alright, I'll call," Sherlock said, scooping up his phone from the bedside table and calling the Chinese restaurant down the road. After ordering some orange chicken, spring rolls, rice, and soup he hung up, falling back onto the bed with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

John chuckled quietly, crossing over to the bed and lying down beside Sherlock. He combed his fingers through Sherlock's still-damp hair, untangling a couple knots. "You thinking? Or just relaxing?" he murmured, nuzzling against his shoulder and pressing a kiss through one of the holes in his shirt.

Sherlock hummed a little. "Both?" he murmured quietly, his eyes still closed. He tuned his head to look at John, blinking a couple times. "I'm... happy that you're back John," he said quietly. "It feels... better," he murmured.

John chuckled, lightly touching his lips to Sherlock's. "I'm happy that I'm back, too," he whispered, tracing his tags where they rested on Sherlock's chest.

"You know, I almost got skin tags," John mused, staring at his name on the thin metal. "Couple of my buddies wanted to, and I was going with them, but I stopped on the way there and changed my mind."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, looking down at the tags around his neck. "What, you mean tattoo them on?" he asked with a small frown. "I'm glad you didn't... would have been decisively harder to wear them for you," he said, rolling over to lay his head on John's chest again. "And it would have been like they branded you, and you're not the Army's anymore, you're mine," he said quietly, the sentiment coming back so easily to him. 

 _Only for John,_  Sherlock thought,  _only when it's just us._

John smiled to himself, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and combing the other through his hair. "To me it felt like signing a death warrant. Like, if I got them, it would be as if I was expecting to die. And I wasn't. I was coming back to you, because I promised you." He stared blankly up at the ceiling. "And of course I'm yours. Since the moment I laid eyes on you," he murmured.

Sherlock sighed, nodding a little. "Good," he murmured. "Though, if it's alright with you, I'm more yours than anything," he murmured, surprised almost by how much he wanted that. He wanted to be John's.

Sherlock sighed, nuzzling against John's chest a little. He glanced up at John's face, seeing him staring at the ceiling as if looking through it. He reached up and ran a couple fingers down John's cheek to get his attention. "Hey, you're here now, though..." he murmured. 

John blinked, looking down at Sherlock and smiling slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here now," he whispered. He combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Would you like to be mine? I mean, I know you did before I left, but... do you still?"

Sherlock leant into John's touch a little, sighing. "Wasn't that obvious?" he asked softly. He blinked his eyes a couple times. "I have heard statistically that the strongest bonds are made during a heat when both partners’ scents are most potent. Causing the Omega to imprint more onto it," he recited quietly, running his fingers down a seam in John's jumper.

"It wasn't obvious to me," John murmured, sighing when Sherlock traced a line on his jumper. "Nothing you do is obvious to me, and I like it that way."

Sherlock reached up and touched his neck gently, where John would leave marks later, one that others could see on the side, and then one on the back of his neck that was just for him. The thought made him smile lightly, and he thought it so odd. Never... not with anyone else could he ever see himself giving himself over like that.

John traced his fingers over Sherlock's features, wishing he could perfectly memorise them. "When do you think your next heat will be? You don't smell like you're near one."

Sherlock hummed, then shrugged a little. "I don't know," he said. "I haven't had the two I should have... after that first one alone..." He swallowed, shaking his head a little. "And then last night... that wasn't a heat but... I don't know. Could be any time I guess..." he murmured quietly.

Sherlock looked up at John. "Suppose I should get something for that, just in case..." he said. He wasn't sure it was the right time to even think about children, and again Sherlock was gripped with the worry that he'd not be able to have pups. It wasn't the right time though, John just got back... and he himself… well, he wasn't sure he wanted them yet.

John shrugged, bending his head and kissing Sherlock's forehead. "Whatever you want. It's your body, love. I'm happy with whatever you choose." He smiled softly, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "We'll have them eventually," he promised. "Just not until you're ready."

Sherlock blinked, looking at John. He was more perceptive than he thought. He knew he was thinking about pups.

Sherlock sighed, nodding a little. "Alright..." he murmured. "You want them, though... don't you?" he asked, looking at him steadily. "Would it make you happier?" he asked, biting his lip a little. He didn't want John so upset, and haunted anymore. He knew it had only been a handful of days, but it almost hurt Sherlock in a way he couldn't understand seeing John like that. 

"I want them, yes," John agreed, nodding slightly. "But," he added, running his fingers over Sherlock's lips, "I don't want to rush anything. I'm still having nightmares. I'm probably suffering from PTSD, so I could probably snap and think I'm back in the desert while I'm  _awake_..." he sighed, looking back up at the ceiling. "I don't want to hurt our kids, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John, holding his face gently. "Okay, we'll wait then..." he said, thinking.

"Do you think... it would be advantageous to... to see someone about that? Counsellor or whatever it is people do?" Sherlock asked quietly, not wanting to push John.

John shrugged. "I can't see myself talking about it anyway," he said, looking at Sherlock with a small smile. "No one but you that I really enjoy talking to." He nuzzled against Sherlock's palm, kissing the inside of his wrist gently.

Sherlock let out a soft breath. "Yes but... I don't know how to... the whole talking thing... sorting it all out I –" he sighed. "I don't even have myself sorted... I can't expect to help with that. And the point is there are some people out there that know more than I do... about some things anyway," he murmured. "I just don't want it to sneak up on you later down the road... like if... when we do have, you know," he said quietly.

"I know," John sighed, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "God, I know." He blew out a breath, rolling himself and Sherlock onto their sides so that he could see Sherlock better. "Would you like me to go?" he asked quietly, cupping Sherlock's cheek gently.

Sherlock settled next to John, hearing the tags clink together as he shifted. He looked down, giving a half shrug. "I want you to do whatever you as a doctor, talking about another patient, would want them to do," he said carefully.

Sherlock knew John slipped between the mind sets, and from the prospective of himself... as John, he might not want to do some things. But as a doctor... perhaps he could see it differently?

"Oh, you're pulling that card, huh?" John teased, sighing lightly but smiling a little at Sherlock's concern. "If I were a doctor and a patient came in with symptoms like mine... I would request that they go see a therapist. But you knew that, of course." He leant forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "I'll make a few calls, see what I can come up with."

Sherlock smiled a little, eyes closing a small bit. "Yes, I'm playing that card... and thank you," he murmured.

Sherlock sighed heavily when he heard the bell ring, and grumbled as he got up, paying the delivery person and taking the food upstairs to the kitchen, setting it all out on the table and grabbing a couple plates.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, guys, until the next installation.

"John," Sherlock called tentatively down the hall.

"Coming." John rolled out of bed, padding down the hall and into the kitchen. He smiled at Sherlock, the smell of Chinese food hitting him hard and making his stomach rumble. "Oh, fattening Chinese food. The best way to work up an appetite." He reached into the fridge for the milk, pouring them both a glass and setting them on the table before he sat down.

Sherlock smiled, sitting on the end of the table next to, rather than across from, John. "Well, there are other ways if you're still having trouble, I do still have some connections," he said quietly with a smirk. "You can bake it into food if you don't like to smoke," he said with a shrug, snatching up a spring roll and humming as he bit into it.

John raised his eyebrows, watching Sherlock closely for any tells that he may have been giving off. "Tell me you're joking, please. You have to know that as a doctor and a friend and a future bondmate that I don't approve of recreational drugs." 

 _I prefer alcohol_ , though he didn't say that, not wanting to get into a huge debate on why they were so different from each other.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Studies have shown that it's perfectly harmless, the only damage it really does is to your lungs and that's from smoking, and short term memory with prolonged use which isn't permanent. In fact,  _doctor,_  it is used medicinally in many places," he said diplomatically with a shrug.

Sherlock smiled a little – he'd been wondering what John's reaction to that would be. "A much better substitute to other things people do to unwind, the most common of which being alcohol, which does significant damage to the liver, to say nothing of the brain cells." 

John made an uncharacteristic huff, stabbing at his chicken. "Yes, I realise all of those points. But that's not... that's just not the point." He sighed, frustrated. "I'm not taking drugs, alright? I'm just not. And I don't want you to, either." He pushed away from the table, pacing into the living room and standing in front of the window, his shoulders tense.

Sherlock blinked a few times, looking down at his plate and sitting back in his chair. One remark said in humour, and then of course explaining, because that's what Sherlock did... he couldn't do humour, apparently.

Sherlock looked up at John, not sure what to do. He poked at his roll, only having taken the one bite. "I'm sorry... I, I wasn't being serious. Though what I pointed out is true I... was trying to ah... be funny I guess," he murmured.  _Normal, funny is normal... and you need normal in your life now... which I can't do._  

John let out a long breath, his jaw clenched. He dropped his head forward, closing his eyes and forcing his shoulders to relax.  _He's just a kid, and not a normal one at that. He wasn't trying to upset you. You need him; he needs you._

After pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, John turned around and returned to the kitchen, taking up residence at the table again. "You need to work on your punch line," he murmured, turning to smile a little at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded silently, still poking at his food a bit. "Best just to give up the endeavour altogether, I think," he said quietly, picking up his roll and nibbling on it, hoping to encourage John to do so as well.

John rested his hand on the Omega's knee, giving it a light squeeze. "It's fine, love, really," he promised, forking up some of the chicken on his plate and eating it. Elbowing Sherlock in the arm, he ate another piece. "Take bigger bites than that," he said gently, smiling kindly at him.

Sherlock glanced over at John, seeing him eating more, and nodded, taking larger bites.

Sherlock wondered what it was about the mention of drugs, even one as harmless as marijuana, that had upset John. Could be Sherlock's use, and perhaps John was afraid of him relapsing, or something personal that happened in his past? Or maybe that was just John... and small things might agitate him now.

"Stop thinking so much, you'll lose your appetite." John reached over for the soup, putting the bowl up to his lips and sipping on it. "Yes, I recognise that look you get when you're thinking about something troubling." He smiled, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "If you have a question, ask. Otherwise... just eat, love."

Sherlock was shaken from the train of thought when he felt the hand in his hair, blinking a few times. "I... I'm fine," he said, scooping up a forkful of rice. "Just... just thinking," he said, focusing more on his plate.

John hummed, not entirely believing him, but he let it go anyway. "Alright, love. I just get concerned about you sometimes." He turned back to the soup, finishing it and then standing to toss the empty containers of food away and put his plate in the sink. "I'm going to go sit down. You're welcome to join me when you're done."

Sherlock nodded, eating more of the chicken and roll. He finished his plate quickly enough, draining the milk out of his glass before setting them all in the sink.

Sherlock glanced over at John in his chair, and then moved over, remembering what he said about wanting to hold him. He hesitated a moment before climbing onto John's lap carefully, draping his legs over the arm rest and snuggling close to John's chest.

John smiled, pleased, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin. "Is there a limit to how cuddly you're being?" he asked, playing with a hole in Sherlock's shirt. "Like, no holding hands in public or something?" He nuzzled against Sherlock's hair, inhaling his scent and calming himself down further. 

Sherlock swallowed; he hadn't thought of that. "I don't... know," he said slowly. "Right now it's just... well I have you back and... I don't know why it's so easy. My wall isn't up with you," he murmured. "Not around Anderson and that lot, though, maybe? I don't... they already think I'm some kind of unfeeling freak." Which, admittedly, Sherlock was most of the time. "Not that I particularly care what they think, it just makes it harder to work when they're being more stupid than usual."

"I understand, love," John whispered, combing through Sherlock's hair and trailing his fingers down his neck.

"How long do you usually have between cases? And what do you usually do between them?" John sighed, realising how behind he was on what happened in Sherlock's life. He made a disgruntled sound, blinking slowly and looking at the window.

Sherlock shrugged a little. "Depends on how many people decide to murder someone else. Though I've done some thefts and kidnappings," he said.

"Shit," John murmured, realising something else. "I need to call Harry." He swallowed, holding tighter to Sherlock. "Not... not right now, though."

Sherlock blinked, remembering. "Of course, you'll want to do that. John, there was something else... I forgot about it, because it was after you... well after I thought you'd... anyway," he said, swallowing.

"Mycroft found your parents John," Sherlock said quietly. He looked up at him, biting his lip. "Your mother and Harry have made contact; they couldn't find her with her name being changed. Your parents lucked out a bit with the trade, kept together and sent to work at an estate, working for a few years before being allowed to go their own way," he said quietly. He swallowed. "But... John, I'm sorry I couldn't find them sooner, your dad passed away six months ago," he said quietly, hating having to tell John.

John's excitement from hearing about his parents deflated when Sherlock told him that his father was dead. He closed his eyes tightly, resting his cheek on top of Sherlock's head, biting his lip and taking deep breaths through his nose.

"It's alright," John finally managed, turning to kiss Sherlock's temple. "It's fine, love. You did your best. I wasn't expecting you to find any of them, so thank you. Thank you so much," he murmured, brushing Sherlock's hair back from his temple. "I should stop by their houses and... well... catch up."

Sherlock still felt horrible for having to need to tell John. He let out a breath. “Yeah... you should," he said quietly. He wondered if John would even want him there.

Sherlock nuzzled against John's chest, his fingers twisting in the chain around his neck, fiddling with the tags. "I'm still sorry... I wanted you to have your family back," he said quietly.

"I've got you," John whispered, and he felt that it was entirely true. He had Sherlock... who else did he need? "I'm almost not sure that I even want to go see them. I mean, I do, and I will, but... it's been four years and eleven months. I'm not..."

John sighed, not quite knowing how to form his words. "They don't seem real to me anymore. I said my goodbyes to them a long time ago, and then those goodbyes became permanent and I'm not sure I'm ready to undo them."

Sherlock swallowed, looking up at John. He pulled away a small bit, so he could see him fully. "John, you don't want that... trust me. If you have the chance to see your mother again, you should. And... when you're ready, go see your dad, too," he said quietly, thinking about his own parents. He hadn't gone and seen them, and when they'd died, he hadn't been on the best terms with them. 

John looked down at Sherlock, seeing the slight sadness in his eyes, the memories flooding through them. "I know," he whispered, looking up at the window again. "I'm just..."  _afraid_.

John swallowed, absently combing through Sherlock's curls. "Will you come with me? I... I want you to meet them anyway, and I guess I just... need the support." He glanced back down at Sherlock, trying not to look or sound too desperate for the company. He didn't want to face his family alone; not after all these years.

Sherlock looked at him and nodded. "Of course; I didn't want to assume I was going but... of course, I'll go with you," he said quietly, gently placing his palm to John's cheek. He turned his gaze down. "I couldn't even go to my own parents’ grave, John; I still haven't. I know it's hard so... yes. I'll go," he said.

John's heart pained for the young Omega, who was ages old for only nineteen. He dipped his head down, nuzzling Sherlock’s cheek gently and brushing his nose along the length of Sherlock's. "It's alright, love," he murmured, pressing their lips together for a moment. "I know it's hard," he kissed him again, "but you'll get there," another kiss, "eventually. And you don't have to do it alone." He rested their foreheads together, breathing slowly. "Thank you for coming with me."

Sherlock sighed a little, nodding. "I would have before... but they wouldn't let me past the gate security," he murmured quietly, thinking back to watching John walk away at the airport, not fully knowing if he'd come back. He did come back though, and that was the most important thing.

"How's your stomach?" Sherlock asked, knowing John ate a full plate, not knowing how long it had been since he'd done so.

John furrowed his brow, realising that Sherlock was talking about when he had left for Afghanistan. "You... you tried to come with me?" he asked, slightly bewildered. He looked up, meeting Sherlock's mercury gaze and reaching around to cup the back of his neck. "You're an idiot," he breathed, smiling slightly and pressing their lips together.

"And my stomach's fine. Stuffed full, but fine," John said, pulling away just enough to do so.

Sherlock shook his head. "The thought crossed my mind, but I knew they wouldn't have let me. Probably would have arrested me," he said. "I was there a while though... couldn't leave," he said quietly. He shut his eyes, resting his head on John's shoulder.

John combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, staying quiet for a moment and wondering what he would have if the roles had been reversed. He smirked. Probably would have punched the security guards and ran after him, jail time be damned if he got to see Sherlock one more time.

"Do you have their addresses?" John didn't specify whose; he knew Sherlock would understand.

Sherlock nodded, still resting his head on John's shoulder. He picked a little at his nicotine patch, which was half peeled off from the shower anyway. He slowly pulled it off his skin, folding it into a small square. "I do. Your mother actually is staying with them right now, Harriet and Clara. Since... well for a little while. Just to get on her feet, I suppose," he murmured.

John let out a slow breath, nodding at Sherlock's statement. "Feel like taking a ride in a cab?" he asked quietly, still brushing his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "May as well get this done, right?" he murmured, though his gut clenched a little at the thought of seeing his family again.

Sherlock looked down at the ratty shirt he was wearing then shrugged a little. "I'd have to get dressed first..." he said, looking up at John. "You don't have to rush for anyone," he reminded John. "If you'd rather wait... until you're more comfortable." 

John shook his head stubbornly. "No. Nope, I want to go. I'm just... a little nervous." He sighed, helping Sherlock stand and then following suit.

"And that's fine, so do I. Put on some decent jeans, at least," John commented, walking into the bedroom to pull on a darker pair. After some thought, he changed jumpers as well, pulling a dark blue one over his head on top of a white shirt. He looked over at Sherlock as the Omega entered the room, shrugging as he moved to sit on the bed. "It's a good excuse to cover another jumper in my scent," he teased, waiting for Sherlock to get dressed.

Sherlock looked at John in the fresh jumper, walking over and picking up the one John just pulled up, bunching it up into a ball and practically against his face as he inhaled. He hummed. "Not going to complain," he murmured.

Sherlock pulled open the cupboard and smiled, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at John, then reached in and grabbed his purple shirt, identical to the one he had burned up. He pulled it on, buttoning it slowly before dropping his pyjama bottoms and sliding into a pair of trousers.

Sherlock dressed himself up and ran his fingers through his hair, looking back at John. "H-how do I look?" he asked.

John ran a long look over Sherlock's form, taking in every detail. "To say it plainly? Hot as bloody hell." He smirked, standing from the bed and walking over to Sherlock, leaning up on his toes to nip at Sherlock's lower lip and then kiss him.

Sherlock smirked, smiling as he bent his head down and kissed John.

"The only way you'd look better is if..." John stopped himself, shaking his head before he revealed that. "Actually, never mind. I'm not giving you that much power over me," he teased, nipping Sherlock's lip once more before dropping down onto his heels.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, though, at the statement. "If what?" he asked, wondering what it was. Something to have power over John? The idea intrigued him, but only in the sense of knowing what it was. He wasn't sure if power over John was what he wanted. Others, yes, but not in that sense.

John smirked to himself as he turned down the hall, gesturing Sherlock to follow. "Nothing at all," he sent over his shoulder, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on, tossing Sherlock's coat over to him. "I'm definitely not telling you." He smiled, slightly giddy at the moment, grabbing up his wallet and keys and opening the door, trotting down the stairs.

Sherlock caught his coat, pulling it on and pacing after John. "John, no wait. Tell me," he insisted, now that John was playing games, it seemed. "Come on, I don't... I don't like not knowing things," he said, taking hold of John's arm as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Now you're just teasing..."

"Damn right, I am," John laughed, taking Sherlock's hand in his own and lifting it to his lips, his eyes locked with Sherlock's.

"Deduce it. What you're good at, right?" John winked, pulling open the heavy black door and stepping out onto the pavement. "I'll give you a hint if you need it, but I'm not straight out telling you."

Sherlock followed John out onto the pavement, the door shutting firmly behind them. "I can deduce many things, but this... sentiment in others, John I can hardly decipher it in myself," he said, almost whining a little.

"What's the hint then?" Sherlock asked with a huff a minute later.

John laughed again, lifting his hand for a cab, sighing as two drove by and he had to try again. "Well I can tell you that it has nothing to do with sentiment. It's purely... selfish..." He didn't want to say too much unless he gave it away. To be honest, he was slightly embarrassed about it, and that said a lot. He didn't get embarrassed easily. But this was personal, and he didn't deal well with his own personal things. "You're hint is that it has to do with something for you to wear... but it's not clothing. And I'm not giving you another hint."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, thinking for a moment about that as John continued to try and hail a cab. "Do you mean to say I'd be more attractive if I was wearing nothing?" he asked. "Because then it would in fact have nothing to do with something for me to wear..." he said, not sure what else he  _could_  be wearing.

"Yes and no," John supplied, rocking back on his heels as a cab pulled up. He opened the door for Sherlock and slid inside after, closing the door and leaning back as Sherlock rattled off an address to the cabbie. "Granted, it would be preferable if you weren't wearing any clothes but it's not entirely required."

Sherlock hummed, still thinking. He looked over John, and then thought about other things. He was already wearing John's tags, which were under his shirt, but this one particularly had him stumped. He didn't know a lot about John's preferences... and he himself had never really had the ability to explore his own.

John glanced over at Sherlock and settled in for the lengthily cab ride. "Any ideas yet?" he asked, having too much fun making Sherlock try to come up with a solution to a problem with few details.

Sherlock glanced over at John, seeing his smug smile. "Oh stop enjoying yourself so much," he quipped, though his mouth tugged up a small bit. "You haven't given me much to work with," he said, sighing a small bit.

Not clothes, but something Sherlock could wear with it. So it would have to be visible when Sherlock was fully clothed. Nothing permanent, because you don't simply wear piercings or tattoos. Jewellery? But then that begged the question again of his tags – no it was something else...

After a few minutes of thought Sherlock finally came up with something. "Something to do with makeup?" he asked, not sure honestly, but it was more a shot in the dark than anything else. John had been looking at Sherlock's eyes when he mentioned it, so that was when he was thinking about it. "Something on my eyes?"

John sighed, letting out a soft groan. "How? How do you always get it right?" He looked over at Sherlock, shoving his shoulder gently. "Yes, alright? I've got a thing for eyeliner. Not all the time, but on the rare occasion..." he trailed off, biting his cheek.

Sherlock smiled in victory, looking out the window with a grin. "Perhaps then... I might try it sometime," he said, smirking.

"You are to say nothing," John said, turning and pointing his finger at the consulting detective. "To anyone," he added, just as a safety precaution.

Sherlock looked at John with the warning, though. "No, I figured I would simply introduce myself to your mother and sister and then casually remark that you like eyeliner," he said.

John rolled his eyes, shifting to lean against Sherlock's shoulder. "You're a genius, you know that? And I'm awed and jealous at the same time." He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, running his fingers over his hip through the silk fabric of his shirt. "And god, you look good in that shirt," he whispered, leaning up to brush his lips just under Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock hummed a little. "Jealously is not required, as what I have and am is yours," he murmured quietly. "Or will be soon enough." He sighed, looking down at his shirt. "I told you I'd replace it; I'll try and not burn this one," he said quietly, humming as John's mouth was suddenly by his ear.

John chuckled, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin on Sherlock’s neck. He closed his eyes, enjoying being so close to Sherlock. Until he felt the cab slow down.

John jerked his head up, staring outside of the window and swallowing thickly. He let out a shaky breath, sitting up more and taking up Sherlock's hand, running his thumb over his knuckles.

Sherlock gave John's hand a small squeeze. "It'll be fine," he assured John, tugging him a little out of the cab after paying the driver. They stood in front of a small house with a blue door, and Sherlock looked over at John. "You won't regret doing this John... and I'm here, too," he said quietly.


End file.
